


Noveltea & Coffee

by rustling_pages



Series: Books and Coffee and Magic [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: All The Self-Sacrifice, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Demisexual Castiel, Grown Men Blushing, M/M, Magical Realism AU, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Smitten Dean, The whole gang is here, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unsubtle Book Recs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 16:52:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12611076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustling_pages/pseuds/rustling_pages
Summary: Dean once thought his literary themed coffee shop ‘Noveltea & Coffee’ would be a better, more satisfying source of income than working as a mechanic. He thought people would come for the good coffee and stay for an even better book selection. He also thought he’d be running it with Sam, but that didn’t happen.Now he’s stuck with a bad mood he’s emoting all over the place, a lovingly created coffee shop no one ever frequents and a soul full of worry for the brother he no longer talks to.When Castiel – a defeated librarian turned accountant – comes stumbling in during a November downpour, things change so drastically for the better, it might as well be magic…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You know those stories that start out as an entry to the DeanCas Tropefest Midwinter 5k, and then over the course of a year grow to 50k beasts that devour your entire heart and soul? This is one of those. 
> 
> It's my very first DCBB, and it's genuinely the hardest I've ever worked on anything, so please know that I appreciate every single one of you who takes the time to read, and that every kudo, comment or bookmark means the world to me. 
> 
> A huge THANK YOU to my beta reader Melissa, for her great patience and invaluable input, and most of all for the unwavering support, which definitely helped me get this written. 
> 
> Furthermore, I have been blessed to get to collaborate with a wonderful artist, who from the first moment seemed to really understand what I was aiming for, and then executed my vision flawlessly. So please give a lot of love to the incredible artwork done by peace-love-and-carry-on
> 
> Some of the chapters have additional warnings, so if you're unsure if something might trigger you, please check those out first. I hope I left nothing out.

**_"Be soft._ **

**_Do not let the world make you hard._ **

**_Do not let pain make you hate._ **

**_Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness._ **

**_Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree,_ **

**_You still believe it to be a beautiful place."_ **

**_\- Mary Schmich_ **

 

Dean Winchester has not had a good day. Or a good year. Where in the beginning, it was brimming with hope and new perspective, it has become the year of not having spoken to his brother in four months and bringing a brand-new enterprise to the brink of ruin in the same amount of time.

Today, he’s gotten in a serious argument with his usual delivery guy and he’s pretty sure it’ll be the last he’ll see of the guy. Which is just fantastic, because although Gordon has been prone to lateness and homophobia, now Dean has to go searching for a new way of getting what he needs to keep this sorry excuse of a coffee shop running.

And yesterday, he got cornered by the landlord, very possibly Dean’s least favorite human being, who gleefully questioned him about the coffee shop’s profits, fully knowing what the answers would be. And then – not even bothering to hide his delight – informed him he could maybe keep supporting this for another month, but if things didn’t change, he’d have to kick Dean out. Why anyone would be so happy to see a business fail that should provide rent, he’ll never get, but then again, it’s Crowley.

He’s worked himself into quite a rage, and because – as usual – he hasn’t had a single customer all day, he’s spending most of that rage cleaning what is mostly spotless anyway.

He’s wiped down the counter, given the super-expensive and hardly used espresso machine a work-over, restacked the paper towels and snorted in derision at the literary quotes printed on them, given every single table a wood polish, scrubbed that one stain on the floor with a brush to much fury but no avail, and is now dusting the book-shelves while looking through the selection and finding it lacking.

It’s all Sam’s fault.

Which isn’t true.

But with Sam, maybe he could have done this instead of failing so spectacularly.

The sound of the door opening and pushing the small bell to ring breaks him out of his immersion in the Science Fiction section. He straightens his spine and turns around with his most charming professional smile in place and feels it slip the second he lays eyes on the guy who just entered.

For starters, he’s dripping rain all over Dean’s freshly polished hardwood floors.

For seconds, he’s gorgeous.

Dark hair that looks shiny and black from the water. Stunning eyes, slightly surprised and a dark blue maybe, with a decided twinkle in them, subtle bags underneath and lines around them speaking more of worry than age. Dark stubble highlighting pale, full lips and a very good jaw line. He’s wearing a tan trench coat that would probably be too loose on him, but thanks to the rain is clinging to broad shoulders and strong upper arms. One hand is holding a torn umbrella and the other is clutching a black brief case. They’re good hands. Just-… they’re good hands.

He’s a mess and it’s very possible Dean’s in love.

Also, he’s staring at a handsome stranger instead of doing his job, so very belatedly, he springs into action.

“Let-…” Embarrassingly, his voice breaks. “Let me get you a towel.”

 

 

* * *

  
There was a time when Castiel was happy. He remembers it dimly, at least, though not without an air of metaphor.

It’s comparable to a book lent from a library once and loved and never found again.        

Probably because after you brought it back, it just kind of got lost. Maybe someone rented it after you and never returned it. Maybe it got misfiled or put into storage. Or it got lost in transition after a request from another library.

And when you try to find that book again, nobody remembers the title or recognizes the story you vaguely recount.

So what you’re stuck with is rawness, scratching at your soul, because you wanted to read it again just one more time. Just to check if that’s what happiness actually does feel like.

Castiel is not happy working as an accountant. He misses a time when his world was worn book spines, careful filing systems of thousands of universes contained between two layers of cardboard and little children asking him ‘Please, where’s the rest of that series, Mr. Novak?’

Really, he shouldn’t complain. He has a steady job with a steady income and a steady roof over his head, getting steady meals and a steady amount of bad office coffee.

After four years educating himself and desperately looking for work, it is a blessing. And he’s not bad with numbers. Sometimes it even feels like helping people out.

It’s certainly the stability he craved. Even though Anna got her life together just after he finally got a job to support her, so it was kind of all for nothing. Even though he’d be better off packing his bags, a few books and a pen maybe, and move somewhere really dry and work on minimal salary to bring education to people in need. Use his magic for something good and let people forget their misery for a few hours with the help of a good story.

He hasn’t even been able to _read_ much since he had to leave that small, unfrequented public library of St. Cloud, Minnesota. He’s tried, but it feels like he’s lost too much. Like the magic is gone.

Which is ironic, since his actual magic is flourishing in the gloom.

And today is the absolute embodiment of every reason why he can’t find that afore-mentioned metaphorical book again.

In addition to the usual bleakness, the coffee maker was broken at work. Furthermore, his boss is still too cheap to turn the heat on, even though the last rays of the kind October sun have long since fled to a better place. And on Castiel’s way to the bus back home, his umbrella got caught somewhere and now has a nice big rip in it.

So when he’s finally inside the bus, doing the good thing feels like too much today. He’s in a mood quite like the weather and the thought of helping others annoys him for the first time in years.

Why should they be any more comfortable than he is?

It’s an uncharitable thought and he’s still stewing it over when at the next stop, more people stream in. Wet and cursing, standing too closely together for lack of seats and space and inhaling the uncomfortable rubbery humidity of other people’s coats and jackets and muddy shoes.

Slowly, almost accidentally, Castiel begins to notice a girl of about fifteen standing next to him. He’s not a sensor, but it doesn’t take their ability to recognize people’s different magical inclinations to infer she is able to manipulate her own presence, and – at the moment – has it turned down to almost invisible.

It takes effort to keep looking at her and it would suit Castiel quite well to simple do as her magic commands and ignore her entirely.

But it couldn’t be clearer she is miserable. Her blond hair is dripping and she’s shivering badly. She’s huddling into her wet jacket – too thin, she hasn’t made the switch to late-autumn clothing yet – and rubbing her own arms in a desperate attempt to get a little warmer. She stands wedged between Castiel and another man, who clearly hasn’t taken any note of her, and can’t even reach a pole to hold on to.

He sighs. He’s being selfish.

When the bus lurches to a stop at a traffic light, Castiel uses the sudden shift to quickly let his hand fall to the girl’s jacket.

It doesn’t take a lot of focus, because he’s still bitter about not getting to use his magic for his own gain. And as always, the less he benefits from his actions, the more effective they are. She’ll be warm and dry within minutes.

And because that felt too much like preferential treatment and he knows the others on the bus deserve his help just as much, he grips the pole tighter and lets his magic pulse through the bus. Nothing fancy, just a wave of warmth and dry air. And because he now feels bad for not having done this in the first place, he adds an additional feeling of serenity.

It reaches some people better than others. He’d probably have a hard time even mildly influencing most of them if he didn’t feel so utterly sorry for himself. So many of them are completely closed off to any outside energy and he can’t blame them. Others absorb them completely, most likely people with more or less pronounced empathic powers.

An old man in the very back of the bus looks straight at Castiel the moment the energy washes over him; it stands to reason he actually does have the abilities of a sensor. Castiel would be afraid of gratitude rendering his actions mute, if it wasn’t for the fact that Castiel himself would get out at the next stop and benefit neither from the warmth inside nor any sort of congratulations.

So as always, this little ironic asterix next to his abilities is its own blessing and people leave the bus in slightly better moods and slightly drier coats.

He likes to imagine he’s a little warmer himself as well, inside and out. Even though that’s a lie, of course. It’s just not the way his magic works.

Having exited the bus earlier than usual, there are still a few blocks to walk until he’s home and the rain is still as cold and heavy as he feels.

He has no idea where to even begin looking for that book.

* * *

The only reason he notices the place is because he steps into a puddle right outside. It’s a nice, deep puddle, too, that splashes icy water up well below his knee and sloshes over his shoe.

He stops for a quick and silent curse and accidentally shifts his umbrella in the process, allowing a brief and wet interlude of large raindrops over the whole left side of his coat. Just what it takes to complete the textbook painting of a half-drowned accountant having a decidedly bad day.

Shifting the umbrella back into place to once more to escape the mid-November downpour, his eyes fall onto a pair of softly lit windows and an old-fashioned wooden sign proclaiming **Noveltea & Coffee**. It’s an oval sign made of a dark wood, clearly hand-carved and carefully lettered. It depicts a coffee cup standing over an open book. Underneath, there’s a smaller sign, no less lovingly made, saying **Come On In**.

It looks nice.

He almost starts crying.

Instead, he goes in.     

* * *

Sammy once said the problem with Dean was that there was hardly anyone he didn’t find attractive. Which is probably true, since having an appreciative eye for both sexes and being an easy flirt made Dean hardly fit for monogamy. But to be fair, there really are an insane amount of hot people out there. And to be very unfair, this guy is probably the hottest guy Dean has ever seen.

He actually ran up the stairs to get Handsome Stranger a proper towel from his own apartment, which is insane now that he thinks about it. He left the shop alone, leaving the guy to potentially rob him blind. (Not that there is much to rob.)

But when he gets back downstairs, he’s still there, looking around with interest.

And he took off the trench coat and suit jacket underneath and pushed the sleeves of his – oh God, wet and just see-through enough – white dress shirt to his elbows, revealing tan forearms that do absolutely nothing to make Dean any less flustered. He resolutely makes himself look away from the wing-like shoulder blades for reasons of self-protection.

Dean is very certain he’s unduly flushed in his rather cold and empty coffee shop, but it’s so worth the very grateful smile the stranger gives him. Not quite showing teeth, actually rather bashful, but stars, he isn’t afraid of eye contact, is he? And yes, those are seriously blue eyes. Dean’s a goner.

To stop himself from totally embarrassing himself, he resists the urge to watch the guy dry himself with Dean’s towel and walks behind the counter.

“Any chance I can interest you in a coffee while you’re here? It’s on the house.”

Again, he makes the mistake of looking back at the guy, who in this moment is running the towel through his hair. Which then very much starts to look like he just stumbled out of the shower. He’s also smiling again, a gentle, almost reverent thing.

There’s an air of sadness around him, Dean notices now. Something dejected and lonely, as if he hasn’t received a kind word in years.

“Oh yes, I’d love that. Though I’ll be happy to pay for it.”

Damnit. A good voice, too. Deeper than Dean would have thought, and a bit rougher.

The machine is already running, even though he hasn’t needed it except for his own coffee all day, but Dean still busies himself with it, hand skimming over the selection of different cups.

“Forget it, man. You walking in here like some soaked-through mythical creature-....” And could he get any cornier? To save himself, he shakes his head and follows it by a much more professional “Just regular coffee or anything fancier?”

“I’ll take a regular coffee with one cube of sugar.”

“Nice and simple, just how I like it.”

Which isn’t technically true. He usually goes with an Americano, but in the course of opening this place and being the sole barista, he’s tried more creations than he ever thought he’d love – and now he’s the kind of asshole who would probably walk in somewhere and order a venti frappucino with almond milk, extra cream and a dash of cinnamon. But he likes it on this guy. Like, really.

He selects the paper napkin carefully, mindful of what he’s feeling the guy needs. At the same time very unsure if he’s not overstepping his bounds. It reads:

**“All that is gold does not glitter,**

**Not all those who wander are lost.**

**The old that is strong does not wither,**

**Deep roots are not reached by the frost.”**

**\- J. R. R. Tolkien**

When Dean brings over the coffee, carefully poured, two chocolate cookies on the side of the dish, the guy has placed the towel on the back of the chair and pulled out a title from the still meager Young Adult section – **_Station Eleven_** by Emily St. John Mandel. He reads the back of the book and gives the cover a soft stroke with a gentle smile before carefully putting it back.

Everything he does seems like a labor of love.

“I’ve heard of this book,” he says, “I’m looking forward to reading it.”

For the first time since Sam left him here to deal with this on his own, Dean feels genuine pride. It might not be the biggest selection, but damnit, it is a good one.

He puts the coffee down in front of the guy and cheerfully says, “Here you go – one coffee with a cube of finest white sugar crystals. Or as we like to call it here, the ‘Writer Protagonist’.”

He gets a warm smile and a gravelly “Thank you.” At which he exaggeratingly wiggles his eyebrows and gives Handsome Stranger his best grin.

Then the guy takes a sip of his coffee and his shoulders slump in such genuine pleasure Dean wonders how long it’s been since he’s relaxed even a little bit. He feels his own muscles loosen in echo.

Handsome Stranger reads what’s on the napkin and his lips tremble for a moment, then settle on a slight quirk.

“This is an interesting concept,” he says and for a second, Dean thinks it’s still a reaction to his (too on the nose) choice of fitting literary quote, but then the guy makes a slight motion to the book shelves.

“It was my brother’s idea, actually.” Dean returns to his place behind the counter, where he pretends to have things to do, and babbles on. “When Dad died, he left us a bit of money - didn’t see that coming, thought he’d drunken it all way – so we wanted to start a business with it. I threw my hat in for a classic rock bar, but my brother said we should go for something more original and decided what people really needed was a place to calmly drink coffee and read books.”

The guy nods with an understanding smile.

“A novel idea.”

He says it with such grave solemnity, but the smile stays in his eyes and in the corners of his mouth. It’s a good look on him. (Dean is starting to suspect most things are.)

“Ugh, yeah, the name was the worst. I mean, we got ‘Noveltea’ but we didn’t want to sell only tea-… It was a bitch. Well, anyway, the whole thing was supposed to be an ‘antithesis to the temporary and fast-paced culture of modern coffee shops’ – and that’s a direct quote from Sammy, I shit you not.” He snorts and misses his brother fiercely for a second there. “So we rented this place, pooled together a good collection of books, had all those disposable cups and paper napkins printed with quotes and poems and stuff. I made some furniture and the signs with my uncle Bobby, got all the other things you need, like dishes and this stupidly expensive machine-…”

“To be fair, it makes rather excellent coffee.”

He’s thrown off his rant momentarily by the pure contentment radiating off the guy, and the way he has his right hand loosely curled around the coffee cup like he’s cradling something precious.

“Oh. Thanks, I guess. Yeah, the coffee’s good, that’s true.”

Dean has little to no idea why he’s even talking about business troubles with the only client he’s had, not to mention someone he wouldn’t mind taking upstairs, but there’s something disarming in the way the guy listens so intently. With a slight tilt of his head and eyes focused on Dean completely.

“It’s just that not very many people come here,” he goes on, half-distracted by those eyes, “and absolutely no one stays to have a good read. I guess people just like their coffee shops temporary and fast-paced. If they come in at all, they complain we don’t offer a food selection, mostly just books, so… It’s supposed to be nourishment for the soul or some pretentious shit like that, but people just aren’t buying it.”

“I like it.”

“What?”

The guy is carefully folding his unused napkin and pocketing it, before standing up, cup in hand. He looks around once more, smiles, takes Dean’s towel off the back of the chair, uses it to wipe up any residue of rain where he sat, and brings both things over to the counter, where Dean accepts them with a certain pleased bafflement.

“I like it. The concept. This place. I think it can do a lot of people a lot of good. It deserves to be frequented. Seen.”

And there’s that eye-contact again, almost too intense, almost like he can look right into Dean.

“Well, maybe you could recommend it to a couple of buddies of yours,” he nervously says.

“I don’t have very many ‘buddies’” – holy crap, actual air quotes – “but I’ll be sure to make people aware of this place. Thank you for the coffee. And the towel.”

He moves towards the door with one last nod, where he shrugs back into his sodden suit jacket and trench coat, and Dean, suddenly almost panicked, rushes over to the bin beside the doorway and takes out an umbrella. It’s the blue one Dean put there earlier rather than the torn black one the guy bought with him.

“Oh, uhm, here. Yours is kind of a mess, no offence. Someone forgot it, so you might as well take it.”

That’s a lie and he’s pretty sure Handsome Stranger can see right through it. It’s Dean’s own umbrella and he shouldn’t even be offering it, but he has some dignity, damnit, he doesn’t need the guy to know how badly he wants him to come back.

“I’m Dean, by the way. Dean Winchester.”

“Castiel.”

It’s a good handshake. Firm and lingering just a breath too long. Just enough for Dean to realize maybe this guy doesn’t want to let go either. Just enough for him to get a whiff of deepest longing for physical contact. Like he hardly ever gets even that, or maybe he never allows himself.

It almost hurts, this little touch. This simple human interaction.

Simply put, the guy is touch-starved to the extreme and it echoes in Dean with such a rattling clarity that he also has a strong suspicion the man is an emoter, and one whose magic rests in his hands. Because even though Dean might be an empath himself, he usually doesn’t get that clear a picture of a stranger’s emotions after just one handshake.

This, he feels all the way down to his _soul_.

It’s actually hard to let go.

“It was nice to meet you, Dean. You will see me again.”

He leaves with a squinty, genuine smile that makes Dean’s poor heart beat faster than a triple espresso, Dean’s umbrella arching above him.

At least Dean refrained from saying something stupid like ‘That blue really brings out your eyes’.

And maybe Castiel is some sort of lucky charm, because for the rest of the day, people actually drop in and out of the store, liking the coffee-to-go cups and the silly names he gave his drinks. More importantly, they promise to come back with more time, and a few actually sit down and pull out a book.

Suddenly, it seems like he’s running a coffee shop, not a graveyard for his own long-lost dreams.

(But it’s not the reason why Dean’s day is suddenly one of the best he’s had in years.)


	2. Chapter 2

He’s been hoping Castiel would return soon, but he did not expect it to be the very next day.

Dean has spent the first half of it negotiating delivery times with a new guy named Benny (who sounds like a decent enough guy on the phone and has both reasonable rates and promising contacts as well as a really nice Cajun accent) and catering to the twenty or so people who have come by.

It’s not raining so much as drizzling today, but he does spot the blue umbrella hovering outside his coffee shop for a few minutes, hoping it comes attached to a certain guy who promised he’d be back.

Still, he misses Castiel actually coming in, because Dean is being accosted by this bubbly red-headed girl – probably college age – who has a thing or two to say about his selection of fantasy books.

“I know it’s pretty standard, but it’s standard for a reason! I mean, I appreciate that you have the bound version of **_The Lord of the Rings_** here, because it actually features the appendices, and I love the **_Silmarillion_** as much as anyone, but really, no **_Harry Potter_**? How is a girl supposed to get through the day without her daily dose of Hermione?”

“I know, I know,” he explains, trying not to let it show that he’s enjoying this conversation more than he probably should, “but my brother took them with him when he moved to Stanford.”

She seems outraged at the very notion, but it only makes her look more enthusiastic. “And you don’t have your own set? That’s an atrocity that must be remedied!”

And that’s when he spots Castiel, who is in the process of taking off the trench coat.

The girl follows his gaze and lets out an amused “Oooh, he’s dreamy. Shame I don’t swing that way. I’ll leave you to it.”

Which leaves him alone and trying to keep his smile a few shades subtler than ‘You’re making my day just by existing’ when Castiel comes to stand in front of the counter.

“Hello, Dean.” He’s smiling, and his voice sounds even better than Dean remembered. “I’ve come to return your umbrella.”

Is he blushing again, oh my God, this can’t be happening. Keep it together, Dean. “It’s not my-…”

“Dean.”

It’s the most benevolent way anybody has ever called him out on his bullshit, which is totally the only reason he accepts the umbrella back and – aiming for casual – says:

“You could have kept it, you know. But thanks. Can I get you a coffee? Regular with one cube of sugar?”

“Yes, thank you. I’ll sit down over there, if you don’t mind.”

He gestures to the table he used the last time as well, and Dean is suddenly intensely grateful none of the surprising number of new customers have decided to make that one their home base.

“I see a few more people seem to have embraced the concept of making a liminal space permanent?”

“What?”

“You have sitting customers who seem to enjoy reading while sipping coffee.”

“Oh yeah. They just started showing up right after you left. It’s like you’ve brought some really good luck with you, man.”

And maybe the pleasant warmth that floods through him is actually Castiel’s.

To distract himself from the slight mortification of having said another super-cheesy thing, he prepares the coffee. When he walks over to Castiel, the man has his eyes closed and his hand is resting on the table, a small smile playing along his lips even though his brow seems furrowed in concentration.

Dean almost doesn’t want to interrupt, but the second he sets down the cup, he’s meeting stormy blue eyes and his stomach does another one of these nice little flip-flops.

“Here’s your coffee. If you have some time to spare, you could check out our fanfiction-… uhm, I mean _Science_ Fiction section. I’ve just been informed that we’re missing **_Harry Potter_** , so obviously the fantasy shelf is lacking, but take a look at **_Slaughterhouse Five_** ; it’s one of my favorites.”

“I will. Thank you, Dean.”

“Any time, Cas, any time.”

He allows himself a small pat of the guy’s shoulder, only to find it sort of lingers, because oh yes, how could he forget. Touch-starved. Gratitude floods through him and this time he is certain it’s not his own.

And maybe it’s just him, but looking around the coffee shop even after Castiel leaves, he finds it a much cozier place than before. Something about the lights probably, which speak more of the warm glow of a fireplace than of the gloomy November nightmare outside.

He poured his heart and soul (and some righteous anger) into the place when he opened, but never before has it actually felt a little like home.

* * *

Should he ever speak to his brother again, there are things he should probably say but won’t. Like “I’m sorry. I screwed up.” Or “I’m actually kind of proud of you, nerd.”

Even though Cas insists those are exactly the kind of things one should say when trying to reconnect with estranged siblings. (Though he recommends leaving the ‘nerd’ comment until bonds have been reestablished.) So Dean might consider it, should Sammy ever get his head out of his ass and give his big brother a call.

But one thing, Dean definitely won’t admit to. And that is that now that the place is actually running smoothly, owning a coffee shop is all kinds of awesome.

**Things Dean Winchester Likes About Running A Coffee Shop**

**1)** **The Literary Theme**

So having a coffee shop that’s all about books wasn’t Dean’s idea. So he opposed it pretty vocally every step of the way, until Sam was gone, and this project had eaten all the money, and there was no turning back. So there have been many days when Dean wished for nothing more than to run a bar instead, with good music, and good whiskey, and a whole lot of flirting with hot, inebriated patrons.

All of this is true, Dean will grudgingly admit. But it doesn’t change the fact that this, a little nerdy and lame though it may be, turned out to be… kind of fun.

So are all the little and big nudges towards literary things he has embedded into his daily breadwinning.

Naming all the beverages, for example, that was Dean’s idea. And while some people still prefer ordering a mochaccino rather than **_‘The Love Triangle No One Asked For’_** , it amuses Dean to a great extent to call out the official name when he’s done preparing it.

Cackling to himself in a half-drunken night of ‘Fuck it, I’m doing this,’ he divided his drinks menu into different literary genres. Within the genres, he named the different types of coffee or tea after relevant tropes. There are, for example, two versions of the **_‘Dystopia’_**.

 ** _‘Sci-Fi Dystopia’_** is a simple double espresso.

 ** _‘YA Dystopia’_** is a triple espresso with a hint of matcha powder and a good twist of tabasco.

Following this example, there are the complementing **_‘Write Drunk’_** (a strong Irish coffee) and **_‘Edit Sober’_** (mineral water with a splash of lime) in the Mainstream Fiction section.

There is also the **_‘Nothing Ever Happens To Me’_** , which is a simple glass of tap water. It makes Dean laugh his ass off every single time.

 **2)** **The Regulars** **  
**

People come and go, and surprisingly many of them stay. It seems like the curse is broken. As November putters out into the more cheerful atmosphere of early December (even though this is still not supported by more pleasant weather), he gains quite a few regulars.

Like Victor Henriksen, part of the local police force, who gets his coffee to go here twice a day. He’s a big fan of the poetry on the cups.

“Let me tell you a secret”, he said to Dean that one time, “The total of ten minutes I spend here per day are the only thing that keeps me sane enough to deal with this hellish job. Because there are so many brats out there, inside and outside of my department. So many brats. Good thing you opened up a coffee shop instead of joining the force, man.” (Dean at some point mentioned a romanticized hankering for chasing down bad guys.)

Also, he’s personally offended Dean never puts any Tennyson on the disposable cups, so Dean selects some of those poems for the next batch.

There’s this high school kid, Kevin, who always seems to be studying and keeps to a very rigid schedule. He started out with twenty-minute intervals here twice a week, but apparently found the place ‘conductive to productivity’, because he’s now here four times a week, for three hours each time, and even allows himself a full half-hour for pleasure reading. It’s mostly classics of world literature, but at least he seems to enjoy them somewhat.

Pamela Barnes gets her daily cappuccino to go. She’s less interested in the books and more interested in everyone’s butts, but no one minds. She’s an outrageous flirt, which is right up Dean’s alley.

Supposedly, she has powers of premonition, but he’s pretty sure the reason she keeps telling him he and Cas will be ‘makin’ some earth-shattering love’ isn’t due to any precognitive skills and more to the fact that she has, you know, _eyes_. Even if it does make him blush six ways from Sunday.

But she does leave great tips.

Speaking of psychics, there’s an elderly lady who usually just sits somewhere in the back and “listens to the way other people read novels” and their “change in attitude”, because apparently (and to Dean’s great gratification) “you’d be amazed what a difference this place makes”.

Missouri Mosely is obviously some sort of empath, though she insists she can actually read _thoughts_ rather than emotions. Dean thinks it’s mostly bullshit, but hey, who is he to judge.

(Besides, the last time he thought that in her presence, she slapped the back of his head and chided, “Watch your tone, boy”.)

There’s the writer guy, Chuck, who’s never seen without his laptop or without a headache. He says it’s easier to focus here (because he’s terrible at writing at a steady speed, apparently, but he’s really not suited to do anything else, which Dean believes in a heartbeat), so he’s here all the time. He drinks too much coffee (the so aptly named ‘Writer Protagonist’) and sometimes he wears a bathrobe, but people really like him. He gives the place character.

The red-head with the proud nerd-factor is called Charlie Bradbury and she’s here all the time. She’s studying IT at the local university, but “it’s more so I can get a job later and don’t have to rely on the hacking”, because apparently, she’s better at that than most of her professors. She’s like the annoying little sister he never wanted, and he loves her to the extreme.

They have conversations that last for hours, disputing the current season of **_Game of Thrones_** or what books he absolutely needs to buy for the coffee shop. (He’s bought a new set of **_Harry Potter_** , of course he has. They also owe a large selection of comic books and graphic novels to her. Because “no library, no matter how small, should ever exist without **_Watchmen_** _”_. After reading through the whole surprisingly hefty thing in the course of two days, he agrees whole-heartedly.)

He’s actually considering hiring her part-time if the coffee shop keeps doing as well as it is.

It’s only when Cas shows up that she relents and goes to read something, but not without giving Dean a wink and a grin.

Which brings us to:

**3) One regular in particular**

Because yeah, of course there’s Cas. Who comes by every day and makes the place brighter just by existing. Who slowly and steadily reads his way through every single book Dean recommends.

(He’s been reading Dan Simmons’ **_Hyperion_** series, which apparently fascinates him even more than it impressed Dean back in the day. Dean is curious what he’ll think of the following **_Endymion_** books (which he totally didn’t buy just so he could get Cas to read them). He’s seen quite a few customers shed some tears over their novels since they started really getting immersed in the fictional worlds, but so far, Castiel has merely responded with a sadness Dean felt tugging inside him, but that only showed in a slight tightening around his eyes. But no one makes it through **_The Rise of Endymion_** without ugly sobbing.)

It’s a bit of a thrill, suggesting books to Cas. Not just because he has such a big crush on the guy that it has on occasion made him stumble into things, but because Cas is actually a trained librarian. Which absolutely does not climb to the top of Dean’s kink list the second Cas casually mentions it.

Yes, Cas is still here, and he still smiles at Dean like he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him and when he goes back home or to work, he leaves behind a glow Dean is pretty sure everyone in the place can feel.

(Maybe the guy actually is an emoter. He probably is, because Dean can read him more clearly than anyone else in the place and his presence makes an almost visible difference in every other customer.)

And he’s just such a nice guy Dean is actually reluctant to complicate the easy friendship they’ve established. Just a really decent person. Who deserves good things. And might want them with Dean.

Which is kind of crazy, if you think about it. Sure, Dean isn’t exactly humble about his good looks, and now he has a functioning business to his name, but Cas is crazy smart. One time, he began absent-mindedly giving a full comparative analysis of Hermann Hesse’s **_Steppenwolf_** and its even grimmer and more bitter counter piece, Jean-Paul Sartre’s **_Nausea_**. Both of which he’s apparently read in their original languages – German and French respectively – which makes Dean’s head spin.

“At least Hesse mostly ends on a somewhat hopeful note. He’s all about searching, you know? Wandering and wondering and dreaming and despairing and waking up to chase yet another dream.”

Dean doesn’t know. But he sure could get used to doing nothing but listening to Cas talk. Not just because of his voice, which Dean might have gotten used to, but will probably never get over, but also because of the way his eyes light up when talking about books.

Only to dim again when he remembers it is no longer his day job. Dean has found he can make him feel at least a little bit better by clapping his hand on Cas’ shoulder after serving a cup and then turn away to talk to someone else and oh so casually forget he’s still touching Cas. The relief he feels is enough to make him want to hug the guy and never let go, even leaving aside any sexual components. 

Cas comes by every single day for at least an hour and Dean still hasn’t made a move. Even though sometimes he is almost certain the skipped heartbeats and butterflies in his stomachs are not just his own anymore.

He hasn’t honed his Awesome Powers of Empathy in years, mostly just the emoting, but his capabilities for both feeling other people, and being able to project his own moods onto them, seem to thrive recently. It’s not just Cas he can connect with now, it’s most of his regulars and even a few people off the streets. He doesn’t even need to touch them anymore, just looking does the trick most of the time.

In Cas’ case, just being in the same room more than suffices. It’s the best kind of torture.

So yeah. There are worse things than running a literary coffee shop.  

* * *

There is a change in the weather both metaphorically and in the physical world the day Dean mock-complains about the accounting for **Noveltea & Coffee**.

The November rains have finally ebbed away, and a low-standing sun has reclaimed its place in the pale blue sky. When Castiel comes in, he brings with him a content smile, some cold and clear December air and the customary “Hello Dean.”

And Dean – as always – grins back too brightly, and says something silly like, “Look what the cat dragged in”, as if Cas wasn’t here every day, and Cas gives him that perpetually endearing head-tilt as if wondering at the expression.

“Isn’t that getting a little chilly?”, Dean asks, already cheerfully preparing the coffee, with a nod to the trench coat Cas is hanging over his chair.

“I’ve decided I like a bit of cold,” Cas answers, “it reminds me of how remarkable human beings are, to be able to adapt to anything.”

It sounds like it’s a new revelation, one that awes him, and Dean kind of wants to kiss him. Instead, he lovingly serves the coffee and watches as Cas wraps both hands around the cup, obviously to warm up. And because kissing him is not an option at the moment, Dean takes the liberty of ruffling his hair – the relief he feels at that is much grander than for the warmth – and teases, “Yeah, but we adapt by, you know, wearing warmer coats.”

“Hm, you’re probably right. Still, we survive so much that should break us.”

Cas sips his coffee, eyes closed again, the familiar stream of contentment and concentration flowing from him to Dean, while Dean serves a string of other customers. Cas always does this, drinks his first cup in silence and without a book.

Dean loves this little part of their day-to-day ritual almost more than any other, because it means he can look at the man all he wants.

Well, as much as business, decency and Charlie allow.

(He lives in a state of semi-perpetual embarrassment because one time, she actually bumped his side with her elbow and told him out of the corner of her mouth, “Tone down the heart-eyes there, mister, you’re emoting all over the place.”)

Today though, there are almost too many walk-in customers for him to properly appreciate the sight, and by the time he can spare a look, Cas is looking back at him with those sparkling eyes and an empty cup.

How any one man could possibly look heart-stoppingly good with worry-lines, bags under his eyes and a small lopsided smile is one of the greatest mysteries Dean has ever encountered.

“I gotta say, Cas, I never figured I’d ever see the point where I’d miss the exact moment you need a refill,” he says before he has enough of a grip on himself to have any sort of filter.

Cas, thankfully, takes this to mean the general traffic in and out of the coffee shop. He nods slowly, and his smile actually crinkles his eyes now. (Good god, Dean needs to get used to the way his heart threatens to jump out of his chest. Or do something about it.) “Yes, it seems you no longer need to worry about keeping your shop open.”

Still babbling to try to contain his embarrassment – Cas hasn’t noticed, no need to accidentally emote it and make him aware of what Dean just said, no thank you, no need for that at all – Dean says, “I swear, I almost wish the place wasn’t making a profit. I don’t have a freaking clue how to do my books when the numbers aren’t way in the red.”

“I could look over them for you if you want.”

Dean looks up sharply, any lingering mortification forgotten at the open look on Cas face. He looks-… hopeful? Yes, he looks hopeful. Hell, he _feels_ hopeful, even across the room.

“You’d do that?”

It’s true that Dean needs help, cheerfully overdramatic though he was.

“I am an accountant.”

“Yeah, but you hate your job.”

“Helping you is certainly a task more meaningful than anything else I could be doing.”

And there goes Dean’s careful shield against emoting too much, because he’s pretty sure he’s giving every person in the building an extreme case of sudden and inescapable butterflies.

(“Dude”, says Chuck the weird-ass writer – also probably a highly sensitive empath from what Dean can tell – with feeling from his corner.)

“When would be a good time for you?”

He’s a blushing mess, no helping that now, and his voice is a cracking throaty thing that probably belongs in a porno at this point, but holy crap, everything inside him is screaming _it’s happening it’s HAPPENING THIS IS NOT A DRILL._

“I could come back after closing tomorrow, if that’s not too short-notice for you?”

“That sounds-…” _…like a date, is this a date is this a date IS THIS A DATE…_ “awesome.”


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel is very aware of the fact that he’s treading on extremely thin ice. He is oblivious about astoundingly many aspects of human interaction, but he hasn’t been able to claim ignorance of this in a while. By now, he’d probably understand it even if Dean wasn’t an emoter who got less and less inhibited the more magic Castiel laid over the place.

And now it’s about to crack and it’s all his own fault.

He’s been _happy_ , that’s the problem. What he found may be a different metaphorical book than the one he was meaning to reread, but this one is _better_.

So much better.

Because it’s the story of a nice little coffee shop with a beautiful owner, a good book selection and no customers and how Castiel reclaimed his life, his meaning, his magic. It’s a story about friendship, something he has never experienced before. It’s a story about finding a home. About forging it himself and about sharing it.

So this, meeting up with Dean after closing to go over the books together, is probably the riskiest, most foolish thing he has done in years. And yet, he got swept up in wanting to do something good for his friend.

But if the ice is as thin as it is, it really would be better not to step near it, because things are getting dangerous. Dean likes him and it’s not just the slight infatuation usual in the early stage of a friendship. Castiel has long since begun to fear the infatuation is more romantic in nature and Dean’s frankly adorable reaction to Castiel’s words the day before has very much confirmed this theory.

So essentially, Castiel has somehow managed to land himself a date with the person he considers his best friend and he does not know how he is supposed to let Dean down gently.

Never mind the fact that his own feelings for Dean have grown quite unexpectedly romantic as well.

He liked Dean from the first moment he laid eyes on him. How could he not, when one visit to a coffee shop saved him from drowning in November rain and his own depression. 

He remembers their first meeting vividly and probably will for the rest of his life.

He remembers seeing an objectively handsome man with extremely pretty eyes surrounded by long, dark lashes. A good, defined jawline that still didn’t make him look like a hard man. Almost ridiculously symmetrical features. Hair carefully styled into effortlessness and just the hint of golden five-o’clock-shadow. A white t-shirt under a purple-blue flannel shirt and a simple black apron tied around his worn jeans.

He remembers thinking this man probably belonged more in a magazine or on a movie set than an empty coffee shop in a relatively small city.

More than anything, he remembers the feeling of something beginning. He wasn’t attracted to Dean – he never is when he first meets a person and it rarely develops over time – but just from that surprised look in absurdly green eyes (he couldn’t see it clearly the first time, but now the color follows him into his dreams), he could tell this man would become immensely important somehow.

And something began.

Stars, something began.

Gabriel once told him he loved too much and too strongly on the rare occasion that he let himself, and he was right, because within three weeks Castiel knew he loved Dean and that he did it too much and far too strongly.

But the plan was always to keep it to himself until Dean’s own feelings turned more platonic.

Instead, he’s being enthusiastically waved into the empty coffee shop, where most of the lights are out and some soft classic rock is playing. And Dean is grinning and beautiful and emoting a ridiculous amount of hope and giddiness and low-key arousal while Castiel is doing his best to keep calm.

“Almost done cleaning, Cas”, he says, locking the door behind them, the sign still reading ‘Back again soon’. “Sit down, have a glass of whiskey, I’ll be right with you.”

Castiel hangs his coat up today, rather than draping it over his usual chair, and turns towards the counter. Indeed, a bottle and two tumblers are all set out on the otherwise spotless counter, right next to a careful stack of papers, bills and lists.

He is all too aware that Dean is watching him out of the corner of his eye from where he’s mopping the floor in the back of the coffee shop. He feels almost uncomfortably warm. Alcohol does not sound like the wisest choice in this particular scenario, so he says as casually as he can, “Could I maybe have some water instead?”

“Oh sorry, sure”, Dean is at the counter almost immediately, already digging up a bottle of mineral water. “Uhm, do you not drink at all, because then I’ll get rid of the stuff.”

It’s a very diplomatic way of asking and he finds a smile on his face at how considerate Dean is being.

“I’m not an alcoholic, but thank you. I just think water might be better at this juncture. At least if you want me to be good for anything at all tonight.”

Dean’s eyes fly up to meet his at the same time as the bottle falls out of his hand, and he is

_blushing so incredibly prettily_.

Then Castiel is clearing his throat and loosening his tie even more, while Dean is ducking under the counter to recover the bottle. There is heat rising in his abdomen, his skin prickling, his face flushing to echo Dean’s.

“Sure, sure, I mean, I shouldn’t be drinking either”, Dean chatters good-naturedly, filling up two glasses with ice and then pouring deliciously cold water over it. “I’ve been doing well, you know, with toning it down so I don’t exactly feel guilty anymore when I have a drink, but yeah. There’s a reason Sammy didn’t want me to open a bar.”

“How is your brother?”

Which thankfully puts enough of a damper on Dean’s mood to give them both a bit of a chance to recover.

“Still radio-silent, man.”

Castiel nods in understanding and sits down on one of the long-chairs and Dean joins him on his side.

“Well, this does have a bit of a bar-feeling to it at least.”

They toast with the water glasses, both take a long gulp – Castiel is feeling downright parched – and then he pulls the stack of papers over.

“Now let’s see what you have so far.”

* * *

Deciding to help Dean with his books – and not the kind Castiel actually loves – is quickly proving to have been a very good idea indeed and simultaneously the most foolish thing Castiel has ever done.

Dean really does need help and while it might be the most boring job in existence, Castiel is proficient in it and knows how to soldier through even the more frustrating and least straight-forward aspects of it.

His hands rake through his hair regularly, eyes squint in concentration at particularly puzzling bills. Two glasses of water are emptied, condensation leaving wet rings on the counter. Occasionally Dean departs from his side to fetch some other document they need and that he has “around here somewhere”, and then presents it with a triumphant grin.

It's work he does not enjoy doing, but for Dean it’s a labor of love.

What makes the entire undertaking feel like a colossally bad idea is that every time Dean returns to his side, he presses closer. Where in the beginning, they started off being approximately a person’s width apart, they are now very much side by side.

His suit jacket needed to be shed because it is “quite warm in here, Dean, don’t you think so” and after feeling unduly flushed for too long, he even rolled up his sleeves. Dean himself has long since lost his flannel over-shirt and by now, the bare skin of their forearms is touching.

Dean is emoting like crazy, making Castiel far too affected by this little bit of skin on skin contact, but it’s not like Dean is the only one that can be blamed. Castiel is all too aware of the fact that he enjoys the closeness far too much himself and Dean as an empath must be picking up on it. The combination is-… dangerous to put it lightly.

After another series of gulping down water, staring at the document with a poised pencil and a foggy mind and swallowing drily, his gaze finally falls to the two tumblers that might be his salvation.

“Maybe it’s time for a drink after all,” he announces, removes himself from the temptation of Dean’s heated skin and scent – stars, that _scent_ of freshly ground coffee and wood polish – and walks behind the counter for the first time.

“That’s a really good idea, Cas,” Dean says with bright eyes and an easy grin. The entire evening, he has bounced back and forth between almost giddy excitement and heavy arousal and it has left Castiel dizzy.

Finding the ice, Castiel fills up both tumblers, then pours a modest amount of whiskey over it.

“Hm, looking good behind the counter, Cas…” Dean wiggles his eyebrows and Castiel lets out a startled laugh.

It really is a different point of view from behind the counter. For starters, this is the way Dean usually sees things – granted mostly with more lights on and more people in the coffee shop – and Castiel is pleased to note it looks quite good and probably would even without Castiel’s magic woven through it all.

More importantly, he suddenly has the best view of Dean’s face, happy, relaxed, more beautiful than anything Castiel has ever seen.

He gives one of the tumblers to Dean and their hands brush, making Cas accidentally down his own glass in one go immediately, because hell. Maybe changing position was not the best idea.

Dean grins an unfairly lascivious grin and slowly sips his own drink, obviously aware of what he looks like doing so. His hand is wrapped around the glass, slightly wet from the beads of condensation and his head tips back just enough for Castiel to have the best possible view of his throat working as he swallows.

The rush of heat is so intense Castiel almost moans. Why drinking whiskey would turn Dean on this much is anyone’s guess and really, it’s quite inconsiderate that he doesn’t at least try to keep what he’s feeling to himself, and-… Well at least there’s no more physical contact now.

It’s not that much more work, and as long as he doesn’t look up, tries not to focus on the way Dean is looking at him and on the very obvious sexual tension he is emoting, the slight separation the counter provides helps.

“Done”, he says finally, with no small measure of relief, before lifting his eyes to meet Dean’s and

Oh.

Dean is licking his lips, eyes hooded, gaze falling to Castiel’s mouth. He’s close, leaning almost halfway across the counter, close enough that Castiel can feel his body heat. He smells phenomenal.

And oh.

What Castiel wants more than anything at this moment is to pull Dean in by his stupidly well-fitting t-shirt and press their lips and tongues together until they can’t breathe. Pull back just long enough to go around the counter and then press Dean up against it, hard body to hard body, just feeling and taking and giving until they quickly stumble up the stairs to Dean’s apartment, shedding clothes in the process and-…

It’s not just Dean’s arousal he’s been feeling, has it?

It hasn’t been just Dean’s at all.

The realization is enough to make him spring into action, quickly shutting the folder.

“Yes, this should do it”, he says as lightly and steadily as he can – it doesn’t sound steady at all – already grabbing his trench coat and suit jacket and moving towards the door.

“Just take the envelope to the post office and you should be good.”

Dean is following him and if Castiel could bear to look at him at the moment, he’d bet he’d see a frown.

“You okay, Cas?”

“Of course, Dean, I’m fine. I just need to get home now. Would you mind unlocking?”

“Oh, uhm, sure.”

Castiel takes two steps back while Dean fumbles with the keys. As soon as the door is open, Castiel is pushing through it, nodding at Dean without properly looking as he passes him.

“I’ll see you later, Dean.”

And he flees the scene, almost missing the small “See you, Cas.”   

* * *

The walk home is over before the icy December air even has a chance of cooling him down and a glance in his hallway mirror has him do a very clichéd stop and stare.

For all intents and purposes, Castiel looks _debauched_. Flushed, breathing shallowly, hair in extreme disarray from having pushed his hand through it too often, wide eyes with pupils so dark they almost swallow every last bit of the blue – he is the very epitome of arousal.

Two hours ago, he left work dreading Dean potentially making a physical move on him. Two hours ago, he was just a man casually and very much too much in love with his best friend. Two hours ago, he was never going to let anything happen, because two hours ago, he was convinced he did not _want_ anything to happen.

Now he wants.

Stars, he wants.

And there is a very good reason why he can’t.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:  
> \- ridiculous amounts of UST


	4. Chapter 4

To say that Dean is confused is an understatement.

Yesterday’s accounting session has very much been some of the most intense build-up he’s ever experienced in his life. But then it hadn’t led to anything other than Cas – disheveled, wide-eyed, _gorgeous_ – practically running out of his coffee shop. And while Dean might not be the world’s most powerful empath, he’s confident he was not the only one interested in taking things a bit further than actually just crunching numbers yesterday.

The only reasonable explanation he can come up with is that Cas is taken. He never mentioned anything about a partner, so Dean just assumed he was available, but it would very much explain being scared of the sheer sexual tension. It’s either that or Cas only yesterday figured out he’s attracted to men. Or – and he’d rather not think about this possibility – there’s some kind of trauma Dean inadvertently woke up.

In any case, frustrating though it might be, Dean knows he needs to back off a little. He did come on strong yesterday and it obviously isn’t the way to get Cas to come to terms with whatever he needs to come to terms with.

It’s also not fair to hope he’ll break up with Hypothetical Partner for Dean’s sake, so he’ll just have to keep his hormones in check and appreciate Cas’ friendship without wanting more.

Well, wanting more will be damn hard to turn off, but at least he can tone it down a little so that Cas can keep coming here without things getting super awkward.

So by the time Cas enters the building – obviously struggling for his usual calm demeanor and hardly capable of meeting Dean’s eyes – Dean already has a carefully constructed stream of non-threatening emoting in place.

_It’s fine_ , he is trying to project. _There is no pressure. I want you to be comfortable and don’t expect anything from you. Things are great the way they are._

Today’s napkin reads:

**“Don't worry about losing.**

**If it is right, it happens.**

**The main thing is not to hurry.**

**Nothing good gets away.”**

**\- John Steinbeck  
**

He tries to find some middle-ground between lingering at Cas’ side as long as he usually would and backing off enough for it to not be strange, but the best he can do is hover a bit awkwardly for a spell and forgo the usual shoulder touch.

Eventually, they settle into their usual routine. Even though today, they don’t appear to have much to say to each other.

Dean can feel the nerves coming off Cas settle as well as can be expected and is relieved at that. There is something else, though, something heavy and complex that he can neither identify nor mollify. 

He does not mention yesterday at all, but when Castiel eventually gets up to pay for his coffee, Dean declines, smiles warmly and lets his eyes meet Cas’ just for a second.

“It’s on the house, man, don’t worry about it.”

Cas is looking back and forth between the bills in his hand and the tip jar, mouth slightly open but not breathing properly.

_Fuck, I really knocked him off-course…_

“Just let me do this, okay?” Dean insists as gently as he can.

There is something almost painful about Cas now. Some deep ache that gets worse the longer he looks at Dean.

_I just want you to keep coming here_ , Dean is trying to project. _I just want you here with me, don’t worry about anything else_.

Eventually, he nods – a grave, solemn thing that has Dean aching.

“Okay.”

* * *

It’s been over a week since Castiel realized his feelings for Dean were more than romantic in nature. Since then, Dean has gone out of his way to make up for some self-perceived slight, and it is both touching and somewhat painful to watch. It should be enough to calm his newly awakened libido to some extent, but unfortunately, the opposite seems to be happening. Castiel has given up on attempting to control it.

He spends his days half longing for Dean’s affection, half aching for Dean’s body on his, and his nights mostly just very hard, which is not helpful at all. Especially since Dean’s face – and, now that he’s noticing it beyond the aesthetic, his physique as well – has lodged itself securely into every thought straying toward release, and this vastly increases the need for it as well.

Masturbation has become a more than regular occurrence for the first time since he stopped undergoing the heightened physical responses of a male teenage body.

Even then, he remembers experiencing self-pleasure as rather frustrating, since unlike most people his age, he could find no benefit in picturing a partner. He would focus solely on the sensations he could bring himself, and found them enjoyable, but his thoughts never could settle on a fantasy concrete enough for him to figure out if he did have a sexual preference. The blurry faces and bodies he could conjure up held no real appeal, and watching porn or thinking about people he objectively knew to be attractive did not contribute to the experience either.

Now, it seems all of what he’s been missing out on is crashing down on him at once, and it takes a lot of self-control to neither dwell on these thoughts whenever he is near Dean, nor act upon them too often when he is alone.

The first time he masturbated to the way Dean had looked at him that night, he barely managed to push his coat off and open his pants before he came. He was overwhelmed by the feel was his hand on himself, his eyes pressed closed and Dean behind them. The way Dean’s plush lips were half open, his tongue darted across the seam once, his eyes hooded and dark with desire. Castiel’s orgasm came so suddenly he didn’t even have time to feel shame over it.

The shame came later and since then has become his constant companion.

It is not the shame of someone who has been taught to regard self-pleasure as a sin. As a matter of fact, in his family, they never even spoke about it. Instead, it was seen as a natural physical response that should be explained well enough by an over-sexed society and private school education. It is not something he has ever been made to feel bad about.

What it very much is, is the feeling of using someone, now that it’s the thought of a real person that provides the images necessary to push Castiel over the edge time and time again. He has never had to deal with this before, this mental violation of someone else’s privacy.

The only thing alleviating his guilt over it is the knowledge that Dean would very likely approve of Castiel’s fantasies. Because as much as Dean is backtracking and trying to get them back to a comfortable level of close friendship, Castiel knows all it would take is one word from him and they’d be very enthusiastically shedding clothes. 

Which brings the other kind of shame: denying them both something that could be so very fulfilling. His magic has become stronger, of course, much like his longing for Dean has become much more painful. But Dean is suffering as well, if to a smaller (and more confused) extent.   

It is a moment like this, when Castiel is pondering the more brood-inducing aspects of repressing his feelings, while his magic pulses powerfully and sure through the coffee shop, that Charlie Bradbury plops down on the other side of his table and says, “So what gives, my dude?”

As usual, she is a cheerful bundle of energy and it disrupts Castiel’s funk almost comically.

“Uhm…”

She has two cups of coffee with her, and sets one down in front of Castiel.

“You seem like you need someone to talk to. About… maybe confusing thoughts? That I swear are totally natural and cool and everything?”

And Dean isn’t here at the moment (Charlie is filling in for him while he has a meeting at his bank), but Castiel’s eyes inadvertently dart around looking for him.

It’s sweet, in a way. The coffee shop is quiet in the mid-morning lull, no one else is listening to them, and Charlie Bradbury is one of the least judgmental people he has ever met. The fact that she picked the most comfortable circumstances for this conversation only supports this previous knowledge.

“You’re asking if I’m gay.”

Charlie manages not to be thrown off by his frankness.

“Well, _I_ am, and Dean is super bi…” He appreciates how casually that is thrown in. It’s not new information, but Charlie clearly deemed it important to make sure he knows. “…and so is Chuck, I think. It’s a pretty cool club. We’d be super happy to welcome you, and any partner you may or may not have.”

His lips quirk against their will.

“Did Dean tell you to talk to me about this?”

“Kinda. Not really. I mean, he didn’t ask me to or anything. But he’s wondering. If you’re into men. Or women. Or non-binary folk. Or any kind of gender at all.”

It’s an interesting question, and not one he has ever found an answer to.

In his youth, he had a girlfriend for a few months, a sweet, beautiful girl named Daphne. Her own magical inclination towards altruism was weaker than Cas’, but still extraordinary enough for two people with such a rare ability to meet that to Castiel, it felt like attraction for a while.

They did sleep together, and while there was a certain amount of pleasure to be gained for each of them, it was sex without urgency, without even real desire, hesitant and often stopped before it even began. They stayed together just long enough for Daphne to understand she might be only romantically interested in Castiel, and for Castiel to understand he truly only saw her as a good friend.

For a while, he suspected he might be gay, but any attempt to find a male sexual partner was thwarted by lack of opportunity and – when opportunity was there – lack of actual desire on Castiel’s part.

“I’m-… actually not sure I have a sexual preference.”

He was lonely, that much he knew. He made friends in college, watched them hook up, fall in love maybe, fall to pieces, hook up again, fall in love again. The general consensus of his generation appeared to be sex before love, and this, to Castiel, was as incomprehensible as it was discouraging. Maybe if someone could fall in love with him before sex even came up...

“Ace then, maybe? Kevin is, too.”

“I’m not asexual. At least, I don’t think I am. I thought I was, for the longest time. Some shade of it, at least.”   

Things changed when he met Balthazar, a British student here for a semester of sociology, both in classes taken and in the many and diverse conquests made. For Castiel, it was not attraction at first sight; as a matter of fact, he found the man too bold, too easy-going, so natural at social interaction that Castiel himself felt inferior for it. Yes, Balthazar also turned his ever-flirting eye to him, but surely that didn’t mean anything.

It wasn’t until Balthazar seemingly made up his mind about which peer group to favor with most of his presence, and the choice fell to Castiel’s, that periphery turned into proximity, a wink here and there turned to long conversation about the human experience, and the knowledge that objectively speaking, Balthazar was a rather attractive man turned to genuine sexual interest. It was all-too readily reciprocated, and so, Castiel entered his first and to this point only real relationship.

Balthazar was not made for monogamy, and Castiel found he didn’t mind sharing his partner with other people. He himself had no interest sex outside of this arrangement, and as a mutual fondness and shared passion turned into something like love, for the first time, Castiel allowed himself to feel normal.

Now he wonders if he has ever truly _wanted_ anyone before Dean at all.

“Lately, I have been-… I’ve enjoyed sexual intercourse before, but it has rarely been about being attracted to my partner.”

“…who is a… current partner?”

She looks as pained about asking the awkward question as she probably feels, so Castiel decides to put her out of her misery. After all, he never had the intention of lying about being in a relationship. Even though it might be easier. Kinder, even.

“No, my last relationship ended some years ago, when he moved back to England.”

“Ah man, that sucks.”

“I wasn’t-… grieved by it. We remained good friends.”

It’s true. They still exchange cordial emails semi-regularly. They even met up once, when Balthazar was back in the states. However, when he made advances to rekindle the sexual side of their relationship, Castiel found he was no longer interested at all and turned him down as gently as he could. Balthazar only shrugged and proceeded to point out glaring errors in the societal understanding of certain songs. Which very much made him the perfect ex-boyfriend.

Charlie blows a lock of her beautiful red hair out of her face. She had it cut, recently, and while it’s a good look, she’s evidently still getting used to it. “Better than falling for some fairy who then leaves you for a rival queen. A goblin queen, too!”

“… I beg your pardon?”

“My last girlfriend, Gilda. We met LARPing, you know. Crazy hot, but fickle. Should have known better. I mean, fair folk often are. I know, I know, it’s a stereotype, and those should be avoided at all cost. But oh boy, did she meet it.”

Castiel still very genuinely doesn’t understand what she is talking about, but settles on nodding along with her.

“Anyway, my point is: Don’t fall in love with fairies. No, that’s not my point. Well, it’s kind of my point. But more importantly: It’s super okay to not have it figured out yet.”

“Thank you, Charlie.”

“But if you do have it figured out… Maybe you should talk to Dean about it? As a friend? Not that you need to label yourself as anything, if that makes you feel uncomfortable. But it might… make things easier?”

The problem is, he does have it figured out. At least as much of it as he ever will or cares to.

“The term is demi-sexual, I believe.” She stops at his words and turns around as he gives the explanation, even though she probably doesn’t need it. “Physical attraction which only follows romantic attraction.”

It was a split-second decision, telling her this. He could have just let her leave, postponed the inevitable moment when he has to shut the door on any chance of being with Dean. Instead, he goes on. “But, as a friend, please tell Dean I’m not currently looking for any kind of entanglement.”

Castiel is almost surprised at how firm his voice sounds.

And Charlie hesitates for a moment, and a shadow passes over her face. She opens her mouth as if to ask something. Then Dean comes in, Castiel leans back, and Charlie simply nods.

Dean smiles at Castiel, and his cheeks and nose are red from the freezing north wind. As always, he’s beautiful.  

* * *

Dean didn’t tell Charlie to freaking _investigate_ Cas, but he gets an answer out of it anyway. Even if it’s not the one he wanted.

He tells himself that’s okay, because at least Cas still comes by. And even though things are irrevocably changed, they’re getting good at pretending nothing has. They return to their easy banter and open conversations, they both still obviously relish the other’s company, and Dean’s life is better for having Cas in it, so he’s not going to complain.

And so things go.

Dean ups his flirting with Benny, the delivery guy. They’ve quickly developed an easy camaraderie and now that Dean is pretty sure nothing is going to happen with Cas, having a no-strings-attached fling with a good buddy seems like the way to go.

He never does it in front of Cas, though. Especially because what he can pick up from the guy constantly varies between disappointed resignation and some form of hopeless longing. But whenever Dean has tried to allude to the fact that he’d be all-in anytime if Cas decided to change his mind, any last flutter of interest and hope inside of Cas seems to get flattened by something deeply dejected.

It’s confusing and he’s starting to think he’s doing Cas more harm than good by being obviously interested in him. Which is disappointing, but what can you do.

He backs off. 

Benny is easier.  

For starters, Benny is a shield, so Dean absolutely doesn’t need to worry about influencing him or getting stuck just mimicking the other guy’s emotions. Around Benny, Dean just gets to be a normal guy without any powers whatsoever, and it’s _refreshing_.

Also, he’s learned Benny just got out of a long-term relationship, so he’s probably not looking to get his heart broken anytime soon, which serves Dean’s range of interest in him perfectly.

And lastly, Benny is hot, in a very different way than Cas is. More of a cuddly-rough teddy bear than the ethereal bookish mystery that is Castiel Novak. Both is good. Dean isn’t the picky type, as long as the chemistry’s right.

He thinks with Benny, they might even be on the same level about it.

Unfortunately, all his plans to get casually laid are thrown out the window the day Benny gets stuck in traffic and brings his mid-day delivery just late enough to run into Lisa Braeden. Who happens to be the insanely hot single-mother / yoga-instructor Dean would have gone for if things with Benny hadn’t been promising.

One shared look and it is game over for Dean on both fronts. Benny proceeds to be late with his delivery from this point onwards and Dean can’t even begrudge either one this little bit of new-found happiness.

He also gets stuck on the very soft look on Cas’ face when he inconspicuously watches the two of them. They’re holding hands under a table while Dean distracts Lisa’s (awesomely cool) son with a frankly insane amount of marshmallows. Then Cas’ eyes wander to Dean and turn even softer for a moment, before looking away again.

He’s still rattled by that a day later.

So trying for a fling to get over Cas was kind of a stupid idea to begin with.

* * *

To put it in simple words, Castiel has a Problem, capital letters and everything.

The Problem, of course, is Dean and his coffee shop.

Before Castiel walked into **_Noveltea & Coffee_**, his life was empty. Day after day following the same old routine, going to the same stable, decent, uneventful job. There was no meaning in any of it and it was a waste. No matter how rare and beautiful his magical abilities, he never truly got to use them and see them make more than a momentary difference. Oh, he had made the days of countless strangers a little bit better, but never before did he get to use them on any greater scale.

And Dean seemed nice and the concept of the literary coffee shop – while somewhat flawed – seemed to have potential to not only benefit Castiel himself, but others in need of a genuine break.

So he created this.

At first it was just a few simple adjustments. He took almost as much time outside the coffee shop as inside, letting his magic flow into the door and windows and particularly the sign to make people take notice. It was a difficult task, because he couldn’t spend too much time actually touching any of the objects he was influencing, and his magic works best with touch.

Inside, he would sit down, order a simple cup of coffee, take whatever book he was currently reading out of the shelf and let his magic slowly seep into the building. Actually enclosed by it now, it would be easier to rest one hand on the table and let it the tendrils of warmth he was sending out wander wherever he needed them to from there.

Every day, he would start with dimming the outside sounds. The hectic street directly outside the door always had a steady and particularly loud stream of cars and he figured that in order to make this coffee shop a pleasant place to rest for a moment, it absolutely needed a bit of quiet. (Despite Dean’s professed love for classic rock music, he had enough sense of mind to cultivate the library feel by leaving it turned off until after hours.)

Next, Castiel would focus on the atmosphere. He’d make the lights feel more natural – after a while finding the perfect intensity that made it feel like the slow flicker of candles and a fireplace mixed with natural sunlight – and make the room seem both larger and cozier, with deeper, warmer colors. He’d also enhance the natural scent of the wood and wood polish, the smell of old pages holding wisdom and adventure, and the deliciousness of the coffee.

It took him seven visits until he’d found the perfect balance, but since then, he’s been very happy with his result and now, he can refresh the scent magic within a few minutes. 

Next, he’d turn to the coffee itself, which became a larger, more complicated endeavor than he’d anticipated. He needed to start with the beans, milks, sweeteners and additional flavors, go through the various machines used to prepare them and then end with an additional round of calm for the people handling them in order to strengthen their aroma and make sure it absolutely never tasted burnt or too sweet.

The longer he spent there, the better he could prevent minor catastrophes, and the more he got to know the freshly accumulated crowd of regulars, the better he could make sure their individual orders were to their individual likings.

He’s also been working on influencing people’s moods, making them calmer. It actually seems to work, since the coffee shop has acquired a new set of semi-regulars, a mother and daughter duo named Ellen and Jo, who drink their coffee black and – to his bewilderment (it took quite a few tries to get that right) – as bitter as possible. Apparently, they’ve discovered this place as a nice neutral setting for dealing with conflict between them – which seems a near constant state. It would appear they find it easier to see each other’s point of few over two cups of the blackest, bitterest coffee.

So yes, he’s been moderately successful with this as well. 

And then things got completely out of control, because it didn’t take him long to not only smile when Dean beamed at him in greeting or took the time to sit down with him, but to start doing it with a pleasant flutter in his stomach.

One bout of late-night accounting later and every last bit left of Castiel’s sanity was blown to pieces.

And he’s been spending too much time here. So much time, because he keeps finding new little things to imbue with magic, and the more time he spends here, the more in love with and the more attracted to Dean he is.

The last few days have been torture. He has barely managed to fluster his way through the usual short conversations with Dean, which only made him grin and his eyes sparkle in that almost unreal shade of green, which did not make him less attractive _at all_.

Despite trying very hard not to, he can barely keep from wanting to touch Dean all the time – which is not helped by how long it’s been since he has received more than a fleeting touch from anyone but him.

And because Dean is an empath, he picks up on it, lets his hand linger on Castiel’s shoulder or deliberately brush their fingers when handing him his coffee. Which makes Castiel all too aware of what nice hands Dean actually has, and how broad and solid his chest is, how toned the muscles of his arms and back underneath his usual two layers of shirts are.

Attraction is longing made physical, he understands now.

It’s a Problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:  
> \- Non-graphic masturbation  
> \- Mentions of past relationships (Castiel)  
> \- Some Dean/Benny that never even begins to happen


	5. Chapter 5

Dean has never really celebrated Christmas and as such refuses to decorate the coffee shop. He’s always appreciated places without all the artificial crap, and also, it seems a bit disrespectful of other religions whose holidays never get the same treatment.

Still, it apparently doesn’t deter people from bringing Christmas spirit with them. Or his new employee from spreading it.

“Oh no,” Charlie answers when he asks her if she’s even Christian, “I’m half Jewish and half atheist, I just like the holiday. It makes things brighter, you know? People could use a little more Christmas cheer at any given moment of the year.”

Dean does not see it. At least not until Charlie places the super-obnoxious Santa hat she’s been wearing all day on top of Cas’ head.

“Adorable!”, she proclaims, “I solemnly swear I won’t let you take it off!”

He’s all squinty-looking, with an approaching cold – “They’re still saving money on heat at work” – red-nosed and with a sweetly confused smile that makes Dean want to pinch his cheeks and then ravish him into the chair.

“Hey, no harassing my best customer,” he chides, a bit too cheerfully.

“It’s quite alright, Dean,” Castiel assures him, those beautiful hands tucking the hat closer, so that it sits lop-sided with tendrils of dark hair peeking out under the terrible fake white fur. “I’ve never been Santa before.”

Maybe Dean shouldn’t smile quite as brightly at that, but damnit, Charlie’s holiday spirit seems to be contagious after all.

Then Cas sneezes, propelling the white pompon into his face.

* * *

And so begins the Era Of Wanting To Wrap Cas Into A Blanket And Snuggling Him Close Until His Cold Goes Away.

It gets pretty bad. At first, it’s mostly cute: raspy to congested voice, coughing a bit, sneezing and looking adorably confused afterwards. But as the days pass, Dean notices Cas’s skin gets an unhealthy sheen to it, his eyes are constantly almost closed and the headache coming off him is enough to make Dean take some ibuprofen. Furthermore, his limbs are heavy and sore, and Dean is pretty sure he has a fever.

Nevertheless, he stops by for a coffee every single day. Stays just an hour rather than two or three, but he buys a cup of coffee and two cups of tea with a lot of honey, sips it through a sore throat. He doesn’t even read, just sort of hangs in his chair, absolutely miserable. And as much as Dean tries to project whatever healing vibe he is capable off – he is not a healer, damnit, not even a little bit – it does not get better.

“Damnit, Cas, you need to stay at home,” Dean exclaims after the third day like this, throwing his hands up in exasperation. It’s a struggle to do so, a fight against the sheer heaviness of limbs coming from the patient. “You better not go to work after this!”

A rattling coughing-fit later, Cas manages to say, “Oh no, I’m on sick-leave.”

“Then why are you here? You need some rest, man, I mean, really!”

Blearily, Cas blinks up at him. “I need caffeine. I spend so much time here, I’ve realized I actually don’t have any coffee at home anymore, not even for emergencies.”

Dean has a feeling Cas is omitting some part of the truth. It becomes clear pretty soon that instead of just buying some from a store and getting the rest he needs, he keeps coming. He starts taking it to go to “avoid infecting everyone”, which doesn’t make Dean feel any better, and to top it off, Dean catches him standing outside the shop for over a minute – and he only just turned around, who knows how long Cas has actually been there – in the freezing cold, clutching his coffee.

And when Dean basically drags him in, makes him sit down and pours him another cup, Cas just looks at him through terribly swollen and glassy eyes like he’s a saint.

“Don’t you do that again, Cas. I don’t give a fuck if every single one of us catches your stupid cold, you’re not going to make it worse just to avoid making us sick.”

“Thank you, Dean. You’re a good man.”

And if Dean spends the rest of the day with a healthy blush and whistling his way through Zeppelin IV, it’s no one’s business but his own. 

* * *

A few days before Christmas, the cold – which according to his doctor was actually full-blown influenza – has thankfully ebbed away. His throat is no longer a mess, there are no more coughs that feel as though his lungs valiantly try to leap out of his chest, he can use his nose to breathe again. More importantly, his body no longer tries to keep him from going to **Noveltea & Coffee**.

It’s a relief to be able to enjoy his visits there again. Dean no longer frets about him, he doesn’t have to worry about making other people sick and he can finally pour the necessary amount of magic into the place with ease again. It’s not like it didn’t work while he was sick – on the contrary, whenever he could bring himself to focus, it was much easier than usual, because just being here was costing him time to actually heal – but mostly it was hard to focus enough on the individual spells that needed renewing.

Still, there are problems.

On December 23rd, he is faced with a blushing Dean placing a carefully, but not store-wrapped present onto his table next to the coffee and the napkin reading:

**“All right then. I am claiming the right to be unhappy.”**

**\- Aldous Huxley**

“So, uhm, here. As a gift. Frequent-customer-bonus. Also, you’re probably the only reason this place is still open.” Castiel stiffens in alarm, but Dean sheepishly and without looking at him adds, “What with the accounting and all.”

Which puts Castiel in the very odd position of blushing and going pale at the same time.

“I’m not sure I can accept this”, is all he can manage to say, trying to keep his emotions in check enough for Dean not to be clued in why this might be a problem.

“It’s just coffee, Cas. For emergencies, right? Your favorite beans, too. And a grinder and a pack of filters, because I don’t actually know how you make your coffee. It’s no big deal, I swear. It’s not like this is costing me a whole lot.”

He has no idea what will happen if he accepts this gift. Could it be seen as payment, a way for Castiel to benefit from helping this place? Having feelings of friendship, let alone romantic ones towards Dean is difficult enough, he doesn’t want to anger whoever dispenses the powers he has. What if this is the feather that will tip the scales away from altruism?

Still, Dean is looking at him expectantly from the corner of his eyes, hopeful and with a flushed face that brings out those beautiful freckles and Castiel does not have it in himself to refuse his act of kindness.

“Thank you, Dean. It’s very thoughtful.”

He won’t unpack it, he decides. He’ll take it with him and keep it somewhere where he can’t use it. Or he could re-gift it, though that thought does not sit well with him at all. No, just keep it somewhere out of sight.

Dean clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair in what seems like embarrassment. 

“So, what are you doing for the holidays? Big traditional feast and presents with the family?”

“Yes, actually. My sister Anna had twins three years ago and decided this was the first year they’d actually remember, so she’s making us all come and celebrate with her.”

Dean nods and smiles that devastating smile of his.

“Oh. Sounds nice. Where’s she at?”

“Boston.” Dean nods and Castiel wonders at Dean’s slight dampening of spirit until he realizes the most likely reason for it. “What about you? Are you visiting your brother at Stanford?”

At the way Dean’s face falls into shadows, it seems Castiel misjudged and the regret was about something else.

“Haven’t heard from Sam since he packed his bags.”

Dean’s hand curls into a fist around the towel he was wiping the counter down with, and the casual way he says his next words make Cas wish to put his hand on top of that fist, pry those beautiful fingers loose and card his own through them.

“We don’t celebrate anyways. I’ll probably just sit down with a **_Die Hard_** marathon like every year. The ultimate Christmas movie. And this place will be open, of course, so I’ll have something to do. Cater to all those other lost souls who don’t get the spirit of Christmas.”

Castiel’s head snaps up in entirely unforeseen alarm. “You won’t close for the holidays? But Dean, I won’t be able to make it back until the new year!”

Dean rightfully looks a little perplexed at this sudden outburst – _this was not subtle, Castiel, this was not subtle at all_ – if a little pleased.

“It’s fine, Cas. I mean, I’m glad you feel the need to be here every single day, really, I am, I love having you here,” his ears are flushing appealingly again and Castiel has to keep from letting it get to him too obviously, “but I’m sure this place can survive without you for a bit.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course. I’m sorry, I was just being-... I don’t know why I reacted like that.”

His speech sounds stilted even to himself. Castiel is a bad liar when put on the spot; this is a fact he has noticed many times in his life. He can easily tell half-truths, let silences speak for different things than they mean, even weave elaborate stories to cover up what is really happening, but only when knowing he’ll have to lie in advance.

Dean keeping the coffee shop open when Castiel can’t be around to keep the magic from ebbing away is not something Castiel was prepared for.

“You really should talk to your brother,” he states in lieu of any better plan to stop the suspicion between Dean’s furrowed brows from reaching the space between them. The topic is a sore spot, and Castiel feels bad for bringing it up, but it does work as a distraction.

“Pfff. He really should talk to me. Why do I have to be the one to reach out? I didn’t move halfway across the country to get away from me.”

Dean starts wiping the counter again, but his hand is still in a fist around the cloth. Castiel keeps his own carefully at his sides.

“You know that’s not what he did.”

“Well it feels like it sometimes.”

And then, after Cas just keeps looking at him, his shoulders and head drop, and he leans heavily onto the counter.

“Fuck, Cas, I’m worried about him. I’m-… I said some things, but I said them for a reason, you know?”

“I know.”

He thinks about how Dean told him he didn’t even read all that much before Sam left. Just a few books over and over, until he was faced with having to run a literary themed coffee shop without having read more than ten classics of world literature, and even those had mostly been science fiction. How he had read more than ever before in his life in that year since his brother packed his bags.

He is mulling over whether to say something about how this, at least, is something good that came of it, because he knows that Dean has fallen in love with many a novel since then, but before he can make up his mind over if this would constitute a tactless remark, Dean has moved on to the next topic of conversation.

“What about you, anyway? Sounds like there’s some unresolved business with your sister, too. She’s why you became an accountant, right?”

“I keep telling her there is no reason to feel bad. I’m actually quite happy life has led me to where I am right now.”

“Good, that’s-… I’m glad to hear that, Cas.”

As always, it is a fine line between showing appreciation, and saying ‘I love you’, and once more he’s not sure which side he’s landed on.

“I’ll see you in the new year, Dean.”

He takes the present Dean gave him and leaves the coffee shop before he can say anything more incriminating than making vague allusions to Dean being the source of his happiness. Behind him, he can hear a softly spoken “Merry Christmas” and the warmth Dean is sending out is enough to have him walk quite far in the early snowfall outside before he stops feeling it.

* * *

Castiel has a good feeling about the holidays. 

He arrived at the airport after a short enough flight with a few minor turbulences. He likes flying, always has, but there were times when he clutched at the armrests this time, more in solidarity with Dean, who has called him a ‘braver man than Dean is’, than any own fear of crashing.

He’s worried about the coffee shop being open without his magic for so long, but he’s more worried about leaving Dean alone for the holidays. And he’s worried about how much he worries about a person who can under no circumstances ever find out Castiel worries so much about anything to do with them.

He wonders if he can allow himself to call what Dean and he have friendship without risking too much, because at times it feels like a reward for the work he puts into ‘Noveltea & Coffee’.

Still, the deepening creases on his forehead smooth out into little crinkles at the corners of his eyes when Anna picks him up at the airport, her husband Garth and the excitedly bouncing and only minorly distrusting twins in tow. He’s only seen Michael and Luc once, when they were much too small to have much of a personality.

Garth turns out to be a hugger, which feels strange but isn’t entirely unwelcome, and Anna looks so good he can barely believe it. The ever-present sadness in the corners of her mouth has turned into a small, glad smile and when they embrace in welcome, Castiel allows himself to hold her too tight for a moment. The physical affection is new, but so are a lot of things about his sister.

The drive home is spent being questioned by the kids, who’ve never really met their uncle before, and seem to be as curious about him as they are unwilling to actually listen to any answers without already asking the next thing that pops into their heads. Later, he learns they like to break things and then cry about it. They seem like one entity split into two, and to Castiel’s immense confusion answer to either name. It is quite possible they might destroy the world if they ever decided to hate each other.

As neither Anna nor Garth make a lot of money, their small apartment is barely big enough for the two adults – unassuming though they are – and the two more than lively three-year-olds, so Castiel is settled right into the living room, to live out of his suitcase, which he rather likes, and to sleep on the couch, which he rather dreads.

The sun set somewhere between the airport and the apartment, and there isn’t much time for anything more than the delicious vegetarian lasagna Anna’s husband made, and a game of cards none of them were particularly competitive about.

To his own surprise, Castiel sleeps deeply and comfortably until the beginnings of the twin’s antics wakes him to exited big eyes that look like Anna’s and one of them jumping right over him from the back of the couch, throwing his arms up in victory when he lands unharmed. Garth brings in a small and rather crooked tree that makes the room even more cluttered and that they all go about decorating. With their father’s guidance, not a single ornament breaks and when very little green is visible anymore and Michael or Luc declare their work done, Anna hangs up the last missing piece, an angel to watch over them from the very top of the tree.

Even given the twin’s penchant for chaos, it is a day spent in a peaceful calm, with Garth doing a vast amount of Christmas cooking in their tiny kitchen and Anna and Castiel driving out of town with the twins to take a walk through wintry woods.

In the evening, they sit down to enjoy their meal – by far the most elaborate and longingly prepared Castiel has ever had for Christmas – with an open laptop joining them to allow a video chat with Gabriel, who every two hours skype calls in from overseas, getting fed pieces of mango by some beauty who seems rather drunk – increasingly so by the call – and rather enamored with him.

It is all a bit more traditional than he has ever experienced, with a big turkey and mashed potatoes, and presents galore for children and adults alike, but it is certainly a pleasant change from the subdued affair it was before their parents’ death and definitely better than the drunken chaos that occurred the years afterwards.

They haven’t even celebrated together the last few years while Anna got her life together, Gabriel with delight proceeded to tear his life to pieces, and Castiel just tried to get settled into a nice, boring life of accounting and hardly any social contact, but now, they’re rather wonderful holidays. Seeing his nephews’ big eyes at the presents, the glint of the many candles even they take care not to push off anything, Castiel feels a wistful gratitude that for these kids at least, life starts out right.  

It’s a beautiful evening. Still, Castiel finds himself becoming restless. His thoughts are almost constantly on Dean and the loveless Christmas he must be having, and the coffee shop, which Castiel cannot even remotely influence from this far away. Before he spoke to Dean, he expected to return from his holiday to having to start from scratch for most enchantments, but the fact that Dean actually keeps the place open while Castiel isn’t there causes him serious distress.

He is extremely glad Gabriel isn’t here to witness it in person, because as much as he loves his brother, the last thing Castiel needs is for a high-level sensor with no regards for staying out of his siblings’ lives to get a hint of the whole mess.

Garth is hard enough to shake. Castiel has a fondness for him, because as outwardly ridiculous as he must seem to many, he is one of the warmest people Castiel has ever met and certainly the best husband to his sister he could ever have asked for.

Being a strong emoter and healer coupled with a heart a few sizes too big, Garth is pretty much a guaranteed great father and from what Castiel has been able to tell during his visit, he actually uses his powers responsibly, toning them down when the kids just need to roam free and letting Anna get angry at him when she needs to. Castiel has rarely seen such self-control over one’s magic.

But he’s also a sensor and he sees through Castiel’s pretenses in a heartbeat. To his credit, he waits until Gabriel has turned off his live stream (to do unspeakable things with the mango girl) and Anna is washing the dishes with the kids. He sits down opposite Castiel, hands in his lap and a look of compassion on his face. 

“Now, brother-in-law, tell me what’s bothering you, because your magic is a mess. Much stronger than I’ve ever felt it before – obviously you’ve been using it on something or someone. A lot. And don’t try to deny it or I’ll have to ask Mr. Fizzles what he thinks of this situation.” Mr. Fizzles being a sock puppet he previously used to entertain his kids and a figure sure to continue playing a predominant role in Castiel’s nightmares.

“Seriously, Cas, It feels like it keeps reaching for something too far away and gets more and more desperate the more it tries. It’s practically screaming at me. Talk to me, man.”

So reluctantly, he fills Garth in on the entire situation. He tries to keep it short, but while speaking notices just how much he truly did need to say it out loud to someone who would not get involved or wasn’t already involved. Missouri Moseley with her strange mind-reading ability and well-meaning reprimand, Charlie with her encouraging and all too obvious nods in Dean’s direction, probably even the writer Chuck Shurley all understand to a certain degree that there is an issue, maybe even what the issue is, but they’re far too caught up in the entire story to serve as confidants.

“In short, I cannot risk Dean finding out. Additionally, I really, really, really wish he’d just kept the coffee shop closed until I’m back so that he might not notice a difference.”

“Well, good buddy”, Garth says gravely, “essentially, you’re fucked.”

Still, astoundingly, the conversation helps immensely.

* * *

Anna was always a fragile creature.

A frail child with a vulnerable disposition, more in spirit than in body, she had always been a cause of worry for Castiel, as well as the rest of the family. Even as a baby, she whimpered more than than laughed, and taking her outside the house was always a difficult undertaking, as it caused her to be severely distraught for hours afterwards.

As she grew older and able to support herself on her own legs, she used them to run away. Hardly a day went by you wouldn’t find her seeking out some dark, quiet place away from people, rocking herself into as much peace as she could find, her thin, pale arms wrapped around pointy knees and a curtain of long red hair obscuring her face. School was impossible. The doctors called it _Hyperempathy Disorder_ and prescribed her medication she soon couldn’t function without.

When those no longer sufficiently shielded from the suffering all around her, she turned to less legal ways to keep from feeling. And Castiel tried. With everything he had, he tried to make things better for her, to be the caring father they never had, the mother who wouldn’t just prefer putting her child into an asylum. But his powers couldn’t touch her, even if helping her could have counted as altruism, and she had wilted away until hardly anything of her former self remained.

Looking at her now, it should be hard to picture the skinny, strung-out girl she used to be. She has filled out just enough to look healthy, cheek-bones still pronounced, but no longer shards of bone standing out before deeply sunken-in, blood-shot eyes. Her hair is not stringy, greasy and thin anymore either, though the abundance of red it was when they were children is long gone.

The pregnancy and years of stability with a more than caring husband at her side have worked miracles. But even though they have hardly talked of her addiction since she moved out of their shitty shoe-box apartment and went with Garth to begin a new life in Boston – away from her suppliers and former friends – he can tell she still thinks about running sometimes.

The phone calls have been sporadic, the visits to each other just often enough to assure him she really is doing alright, but there’s a weight there and he suspects it has more to do with him than her.    

To his slight surprise, Anna approaches it when the official festivities have ceded to the drawn-out but finally overwhelming sleepiness of three-year-olds.

They’re sitting together, just the two of them in the cramped and cozy living room, while Garth is tucking in the kids with a long good-night story of his own invention. The rather potent egg-nog Gabriel sent via mail has seeped pleasantly into Castiel’s bones. Occasionally, giggles of delight from the kids’ bedroom can be heard over the soft play of a bluesy Christmas music sampler.

“Are you happy, Castiel?” Anna asks in that gentle voice that never fails to remind him of his mother. They’re not looking at each other, but her foot is slowly tapping along with the music next to his and he knows she’s been meaning to ask this for a long time. “With everything you did for me, I sometimes feel like I owe you a lifetime of happiness.”

He takes a moment to consider, tongue both loosened and hindered by his level of slow intoxication.

“I haven’t been. Not for a long time, I think. Even before I became an accountant”, he trails off, listens to the repetition of the phrase _‘Oh night divine’_ , and Anna gives him the time to find the right words.

“I don’t want you to feel guilty over anything, Anna. You had a rough time and I was glad to help as much as I could. And you did good. This”, he aimlessly gestures around, feeling the weight of his own arm and wonders whether Dean is drinking too, tonight, “this is a good life. It’s everything I ever wanted for you and I am so proud you didn’t even need my help in the end.”

The song comes to an end and a new one starts, with artfully scattered notes across what he pictures to be the vast expanse of a grand black piano.

“I am happy now, I think”, he says, thinking that Dean would probably not admit to liking this kind of music very much, because his own soul sounds more like the weeping and jubilation of an electric guitar. “Life is-…”, he sighs and it comes out a yawn, “life is messy. And complicated. But I really think I’m happy now.”

Anna wordlessly lays her head on his shoulder. He’s still stroking her soft red hair when he falls asleep, surrounded by warmth and family and the music that probably came directly from someone else’s soul and the diffuse and altogether comforting sense of having something to look forward to when he comes back home.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:  
> \- Addiction (past, Anna)  
> \- Mr Fizzles  
> \- A Wholesome ChristmasTM


	6. Chapter 6

Dean is three years old when his brother is born.

Sammy is a squishy little red thing in Mom’s arms that makes Dad’s eyes misty and Dean has been looking at him for a good six or twenty minutes, bouncing on his heels and twisting his hands in his mom’s hospital sheets to keep from poking him with his fingers.

His mom finally looks up from the baby to notice and touches his cheek gently. 

“Do you want to hold him, Dean?”

“Can I?”

He’s already climbing up into the bed, his dad giving him a boost. After settling in right next to his mom, she shows him how to hold his arms and carefully lays the baby boy into them, so that the surprisingly hairy, warm little head is right on Dean’s elbow. 

“He’s heavier than he looks! What if I drop him?”

“You’re doing fine, Dean, just hold him like this.”

The baby’s eyes are closed, but his tiny mouth is moving, and his brow is scrunching up a bit. Dean can’t stop staring at him.

“You can rock him a bit, if you like.”

Dean very carefully starts doing just that, and when he feels good about the rhythm, he finally does what he’s been wanting to all along and pokes at Sammy’s hand. As he’s seen with his mom and dad, the baby grips Dean’s finger. It looks different on him than it does on his Mom or Dad, because they have much larger hands, but even against Dean’s clammy three-year-old hands, they look tiny. They’re strong, though.

“Weird,” he exclaims, and his parents laugh a little.

And then Dean is suddenly incredibly hungry. He just had some of the cake Uncle Bobby brought by, but suddenly he could eat all the cake in the world.

“Hey, can you take him back, Mom? I want more cake.”

“Didn’t you have two pieces already?” 

“Well,” he says with all the seriousness of a three-year-old who’s spent too much time around grown-ups, “what can I say, I’m hungry.”

His mom takes the baby back and Dean hops off the bed. Two seconds later, little Sammy squeaks weakly before starting to scream.

“Looks like you both are.”

Dean is three years old when they discover he’s an empath.

* * *

Dean is eleven years old when he breaks his arm. It’s stupid – he was climbing a couple of the car wrecks in Bobby’s salvage yard to check if that Ford Mustang still had some of its cylinders and slipped. Could have been worse, too. He landed on his arm awkwardly and even though the snap and following pain brought a few tears to his eyes, he didn’t even have the breath knocked out of him by the impact, let alone got himself hurt worse.

Muttering a few curses he picked up from his father with relish, and wiping the tears away with his good hand, he scrambles to his feet after a minute or so and ambles back to Bobby’s house. He entertains some heroic notions of maybe hiding it and bravely fighting through the pain on his own until the bone has healed – it’ll be good training to keep his emoting under control – which all get dashed the second he gets through the door and Sammy looks up sharply.

Bobby’s in some other room and Dean’s little brother has a freakishly huge book in his hands – the _nerd_ – but he slams it shut and as good as runs over to him. He has big soulful tears in his puppy-dog eyes by the time he’s in front of Dean.

Well, there goes the secret mission. Thwarted by his stupidly empathic little brother and his own inability to keep the pain from leaking out.

“Man, Sammy, it’s okay. Just broke my arm, is all.”

But the kid still looks like someone set fire to his book-shelf.

“See? It even looks kind of cool!” Dean carefully pulls back the flannel to poke at the bump – probably his broken _bone holy shit_ – and tries to project _this is awesome I’ve always wanted to see my bone_ instead of _ow ow OW_. It does look kind of cool and he _definitely does not feel like he’s gonna puke, no he doesn’t_. 

But the second Sammy carefully touches the rapidly bruising skin, he can feel the sickness receding, the swelling go down and finally his bone settling back into its proper place.

“What the fuck???”, he says, totally forgetting he’s not supposed to swear in front of his kid brother.

They look at each other in astonishment for a second, before it all comes slamming back – the pain, the nausea, _holy shit the pain_ – and Sammy lets out a scream, then a whimper as Dean’s arm stays whole and Sam’s own little arm snaps.

“BOBBY!!!!!”

Dean is a mess by the time Bobby runs into the room – overwhelmed by Sam’s pain, confused, guilty because that’s _his broken arm_ , not Sammy’s. It might be the first time his emoting is so far out of control that Bobby has to take a moment to steady himself before he can actually tend to Sam.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he mutters, guiding the distraught children to the couch. “What happened, Sammy? Did you break your arm?”

“No, I did!” Dean is wailing. He probably hasn’t done that since his mom died, but who cares who cares _he hurt Sammy he hurt his little brother he hurt Sammy!!!_ “Change it back, change it back! _I_ broke it, _I_ should have a broken arm, change it back!”

It’s a testament to how good Bobby is at emoting that they eventually manage to calm down enough to tell him what happened. It’s actually easier to make Sam stop crying than Dean, whose powers are completely out of control, feeling every bit of hurt Sam is feeling, emoting every bit of upset he himself is feeling.

Sam is eight when they figure out he’s a healer. He’s eight when Bobby very gravely sits down with him and Dean and says:

“Sam, I realize you want to help people, but you need to be careful. This is a dangerous power.”

“But I’m glad Dean’s no longer got a broken arm.”

“I know that-”

Dean interrupts, still breathing hard and on the verge of tears, “Fuck that! I don’t want you to have a broken arm instead of me!” 

To Bobby’s credit, he doesn’t even point out the swearing and instead very gently says: “That’s what I mean, Sam. This is just a broken arm and it’ll heal in no time, but there are other kinds of pain out there. You’re a good kid and you’ll want to help people, but you could really hurt yourself.”

Sam just looks at them all with those big eyes, cradling his arm.

“It’s all your stupid fault,” Dean tells himself later, after he’s locked himself up in his and Sam’s room. Bobby forbid him from coming to the hospital – he’s probably right in being afraid it’ll completely overwhelm him. He said he’d watch out for Sammy, but they both knew it’d be taxing to be around that much pain and illness, especially now that Sam knows he could help.

It is the first time Dean is terrified for his little brother.

It’s really not the last time.

* * *

Dean is twenty-one when he catches Sam healing someone.

They’re at the DMV, because Sam is finally getting his license and Dean promised to take them both out for beer to celebrate. Dean isn’t really in the mood, but Dad’s definitely not up to it, what with how late he came home last night, and the amount of bottles Dean took out this morning.

There is an elderly lady in front of them in the line and she keeps sniffling into a wrinkled cloth handkerchief. It’s hard to miss her, even though Dean is standing behind Sam and the guy has shot up like a weed. So he doesn’t miss it either when the next time the line shuffles forward, Sam ‘accidentally’ bumps into the woman and with his patented Kind Smile pats her hand and apologizes.

“Did you just-…”, he pulls Sam out of the line and out of the building on one hand.

And Sam might be faking confusion and saying, “What? Dean, what?”, but his nose is already sounding mighty stuffed.

Outside, Dean lets go and points a finger into Sam’s face instead. Stupid, floppy hair is falling into his eyes, but it doesn’t conceal the guilty look.

“I did not just watch you heal that woman!”

Sam, as always trying to defuse the situation but now seriously in need of a tissue, puts up his hands and slowly says, “It’s just the flu, Dean. She could have died of that and I’ll be fine.”

“That’s not the point!”, Dean shoves a hand into the pocket of his – formerly Dad’s – brown leather jacket and procures a carefully folded clean paper tissue, which he stuffs into Sam’s placatory hand. “You can’t do shit like that, Sam. You heard Bobby. It’s dangerous. You don’t even know how exactly it works! For all you know, you could have taken on all the other old-people problems along with that stupid flu!”

Sam does blow his nose, then lets out a slight cough, but when he looks back at Dean, he’s standing tall and haughty.

“Actually, I do know.”

“What now?”

It’s the first time since Dean has known him that he feels he has lost all access to his brother.

“I’ve got a pretty good handle on it.”

There is a rush in Dean’s head, something sick and scared warring with the stubbornness coming off his brother.

“Again, you what now?”

“Oh, come on, Dean, it’s not like I was just going to ignore this gift forever!”

“Are you kidding me right now? Is that what this is?”

“No, actually I’ve been practicing. Just small things; don’t get your panties in a twist.” And Dean is so upset he doesn’t even have to tell himself _It’s just a saying, Dean, no need to blush._ “Honestly, Dean, I’ve got it under control.”

Dean is furious. He’s terrified. He always knew he’d have to deal with this again at some point, but he is _not ready_.

He pulls himself together, breathes in deeply and lays a hand on Sam’s shoulder, big-brother-like.

“Just please. Sammy.” It sounds too much like pleading for Dean’s taste, but this is not a matter of pride. Not this. “Can you just stop? For me? This kind of shit-… you’re really fucking worrying me. You’re kind of all I have, man.”

“Dean-…”

And he can tell the conversation is not over, not by a long shot, but he knows his brother well enough to know there’s no reasoning with him when he looks like this. 

“You know what?” Dean pats Sam’s shoulder twice, then pulls back. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. How ‘bout a beer right now, huh, Sammy? Well get your license tomorrow. Beer first. That’ll clear that flu right up.”

Sam is eighteen when a bad bout of pneumonia almost kills him.

Dean does not go to his first class of mechanical engineering at the local community college, nor to his second or third or fourth. He sits by his little brother’s side at the hospital and worries. About the bills, about the chance he’s missing out on right now, but mostly about how this cannot happen again, because even if Sam’s heart can go another round like this, Dean’s cannot.  

The drive home after Sam finally got released is quiet and when Dean parks the car, neither of them make to get up.

Sam’s voice is small when he finally says, “I won’t do it again.”

Dean breathes out and reaches over to squeeze his shoulder.

* * *

Dean is thirty-two when Sam tells him he got accepted into medical school.

They’ve just finished carrying in the last of the shelves Dean built with Bobby a few weeks back and Dean is starting to feel really good about this coffee shop thing for the first time. He’s been putting on a show of excitement and dedication to the project for Sam – and also a little bit for himself – but now, with the counter, the tables and chairs and book shelves in place, he can finally actually picture enjoying working here.

He can definitely picture his brother here, drawing in customers with his way of genuinely caring for every stray on the street, engaging them in fascinating literary discussions of the highest nerd order while Dean fills cups of coffee.

It feels like Dean can finally let go of the guilt he’s been carrying around ever since Dad’s sudden and inevitable decline in health made Sam drop out of law school and help Dean pay the increase of bills by filing and fixing stuff at a vet’s office. Dean had fought him tooth and nail, but Sam insisted it was better this way.

And when the doctor at that office, a young widow named Amelia started echoing Sam’s pain until they both felt a little less burdened by it, Dean had finally relented and agreed that maybe it hadn’t been the worst move for Sam to come back home, even if it was costing him a scholarship.

But things with Amelia had ended with the wholly unexpected return of her husband, and Sam had been broken hearted ever since, flipping burgers instead, temporarily falling in with a bad crowd – to this day, Dean swears if he ever sees that Ruby chick again, he will personally escort her to hell – and unreconciled with their Dad even when his liver did finally give out and take the rest of his organs with it.

To this day, Dean will not understand why Dad didn’t just use the money he apparently had stashed away to pay his own medical bills, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth now. Sam broke ties with Ruby and the drugs he took to numb the pain of the world and his own grief, and eventually convinced Dean to use their new wealth to open up a coffee shop rather than a bar.

And the coffee shop is starting to look kind of great. Sure, Dean may have rather just called it the much simpler **‘A Book An’ A Cup’** , but even the weird name that he’s carved into the sign still in the workshop back at Bobby’s seems like a good omen now. 

And the landlord – though not a guy Dean wants to spend particularly much time with – just announced the upstairs is up for rent as well. And the quick tour he gave them didn’t even make it look particularly bad. 

“So, what do you, reckon, Sammy, think we’ve got the budget to move up there? It’ll be a bit small, but it’d be convenient as hell.”

Sam shoots him a quick grin, but there’s something in the way he shuffles his feet and looks away real quick that wipes the grin off Dean’s face before it’s found a home there.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this,” Sam says and tugs at his ear. 

Dean breathes in deeply and slowly takes off his working gloves, before walking over to the counter, putting a bit of distance between his extremely nervous brother and himself. He has a feeling he’s going to need something to hold him up anyway. He wishes he’d brought a bottle of whiskey. He takes a long gulp of water from the dusty bottle instead.  

“Tell me,” is what he finally says, already clenching his jaw.

“You absolutely should take this place, because it’s great. But I won’t be moving in with you.”

And Dean’s not an idiot, he knows where this is going, but he nonetheless keeps pretending to misunderstand, the smile feeling as fake as the previous joy has proven.

“And why is that? Want your own place? I can respect that. We might even be able to afford it if this thing takes off.”

Sam’s not an emoter, but Dean can tell he’s trying to at least control his own emotions enough to not freak Dean out any further. He talks in the same hushed, careful way he did that one time he and Dad didn’t yell at each other on his death bed.

“No, actually. I won’t be staying here in Lawrence.”

“And where, pray tell, will you be going?”

“I got accepted into Stanford. California. To attend their medical school.”

“Medical school. At Stanford.”

“Yes.”

Dean breathes out deeply. He will yell. He knows he shouldn’t, because there will be no reasoning with Sam if he does, but this is already a debate he has lost.

“So, you’re telling me this entire time, while I’ve been chewing through book after stupid freaking book of poetry – Poetry, Sam! As if I read that crap! – looking for stupid lines to put on stupid disposable cups, you’ve been applying to med schools?”

“Dean-…”

“No, no, let me get this straight. You reject _my_ awesome idea and talk me into putting Dad’s money into a coffee shop with a damn _literary theme_ , all the while saying, ‘We’ll do this together, Dean, no worries, it’ll be great’, and now you’re going to become a doctor instead? In goddamn California?”

“Well, I-…”

“I’m not even halfway finished!” Years of bottled up resentment and worry, and Dean can’t even begin to hold them in any longer. “Are you fucking crazy? You’re a healer, Sam! There’s a good fucking reason healers usually stay the fuck away from hospitals! Do you even remember what happened the last time? Because I do!”

He finally pushes off the counter and walks around it to finally get in his brother’s face.

“So you start being a doctor and what? You meet one kid with cancer and you’re dead? You can’t handle being around that much pain, Sam! You couldn’t even handle it when it was just regular pain or are we forgetting your little drug addiction?”

It’s the first time there is something other than that damn ‘yell at me I deserve it’ look in Sam’s wide eyes. Some glint of rebellion, anger even. Dean hasn’t exactly been honing his powers as an empath and at the moment, he’s far too busy with his own emotions to feel his brother’s as well, but this, he can see.

“I’ve got it under control, Dean! And even if I ever did make this decision, who are you to tell me my life is worth more than anyone else’s?”

“Who am I?” and now he’s yelling in earnest, “ _Who am I?_ I’m your freaking _brother_!”

“Exactly! You’re not my father, Dean, you’re my brother. And this is what I want to do. Be a doctor. Help people. And I know it’s going to be tricky, but I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t think I could handle it.”

They look at each other for a long moment, Dean’s chest heaving with the heartbreak he can’t seem to conceal, Sam valiantly standing against it.

“Well, you’ve certainly learned to not give a shit about some people,” is what he eventually flings at his brother before turning back to the counter and leans on it heavily, this time facing away from Sam.

For a long time, there is no further sound than the cars rushing by outside.

“So you’re going to California,” Dean finally says with a forced calm that doesn’t even last until the next sentence. “And what am I supposed to do, huh? You’re just leaving me with this stupid **_‘Noveltea’_** ”, he is going to throw that damn sign against the wall the next time he sees it, “coffee shop that – again – wasn’t even my idea!”

“Your idea sucked, Dean! I just wanted to get you started! This way, you actually have a chance to make something out of yourself.”

And just like that, they’re face to face again, and if this is what it’s like, then Dean certainly won’t cut him any slack for looking like he regrets saying what he’s obviously been thinking this entire time.

“Oh, I see, I see. So this is like a handout? Huh? Sammy? You’re gonna be a big-shot doctor – making something out of _yourself_ , even if it’ll just be for a year or so before you kill yourself – and meanwhile the family screw-up gets Dad’s money?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Dean just laughs and it sounds as bitter as the thing filling up his throat tastes.

“Well screw you, Sam.” A finger harshly tapped against Sam’s chest, because this is all so horrible, why not go for the full cliché. “Screw. You. Do whatever you have to, but don’t even bother calling.”

He needs a drink so bad.

“You don’t mean that.”

And Dean thinks of all the times his little brother has looked at him like that, getting away with everything using nothing but his wide, sincere puppy dog eyes.

He thinks of how scared Dean has been for him all his life, of all the ways he failed as a big brother, of all the things he couldn’t protect him from. He thinks of the guaranteed suicide his brother is walking towards and how Dean cannot stop him from this either.

He thinks of the coffee shop he’ll have to run alone, knowing nothing about any of it except that any moment, he might get a call saying Sammy just died. 

“Maybe I fucking do.”

And Sam is crying now, actual, honest tears filling his eyes. Dimly, Dean can even feel an echo of that pain he’s feeling, but he can’t bring himself to take back the words.

“Okay,” Sam finally says, and it has all the weight of a very final goodbye. “Okay.”

Dean watches him walk out the door, a dejected silhouette against a bright October sky. It falls closed behind him again, pushed softly, but the sound still echoes in the sudden absence.

Sam is twenty-nine when he begins his studies at Stanford. He never does call.

* * *

Dean is thirty-three and he has not celebrated Christmas since his mom died. He’s also absolutely never had a problem with it, but this year is off.

He gets his obligatory phone call from Bobby, who tells him to come over sometimes because he doesn’t feel like getting chauffeured all the way into town all the time, a take-out box from the Roadhouse courtesy of Ellen, who apparently heard he wouldn’t get a proper meal for Christmas from an undisclosed source, and more radio silence from Sam.

By all accounts, he should be in a better mood, because the delivery from the Roadhouse came with a dude called Ash who rocked a great mullet, had an even better taste in classic rock, flirted in an unmistakable but unobtrusive way and said, “Too bad this isn’t a bar, man, I’d be here all the time.”

But that just reminded him of how he was going to have this place _be a bar_.

“Stupid Sam and his stupid self-sacrificing ass, thinks he’s so much better than me”, he tells Bruce Willis, who’s a little too busy trying to save a bunch of people from Hans Gruber to listen to him, “Gets himself a nice death-sentence on delay and me, he gives fucking _charity_. Let the loser mechanic use dead Dad’s money to finally make something of himself. Sammy doesn’t need it. No, Sammy can make it without Dean’s help. But apparently, Dean can’t make it without Sam’s, because he even would have chosen an overused concept over this _super original idea._ ”

The last bit is said with every bit of mocking derision he is capable of, but Bruce Willis is unappreciative of his impression of a twelve-year-old girl.

Then he remembers even the super original idea almost failed under his care and his mood drops even further.

“Fuck him, I would have been good with a bar of my own. I know how to do that, you know?” Bruce Willis is still too busy. “Had to figure all of this bullshit out on my own. And I got it right eventually, didn’t I?” Bruce Willis blows something up. “Yeah. Right you are, man.”

Dean spends Christmas eating excellent steak and curly fries dipped in a rich sauce, in front of the TV as planned, but for once, he can’t seem to enjoy it. There’s an emptiness lingering around him, discontent, and it sets him on edge.

Even the coffee shop only seems half as alive and people don’t stay as much. Might be his attitude, but the lights seem more artificial, the street louder, and the customers not half as relaxed. Not even the coffee tastes the way it should. He misses Cas and feels stupid because of it. He misses Sam. All in all, he’s in a shitty mood. He can’t even focus on **_A Visit from the Goon Squad_** , which Jo insisted he read, even though it’s good. He mostly just feels strangely triggered by it and very, very alone.

On New Year’s Eve, he gets shitfaced on half a bottle of brandy and types out a ‘Happy New Year’ to Sam, but doesn’t press send. He’s not sure he means it anyway.

(At least he doesn’t send ‘Happy Screw You’ either, which he typed afterwards.)

Sam is twenty-nine when he doesn’t write anything either.

Outside, it begins to snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:  
> \- Injury (broken arm)  
> \- Self-sacrifice bordering on suicidal ideation (Sam in his role as a healer)  
> \- Brief mention of addiction  
> \- Brothers fighting and not making up  
> \- Mentions of alcoholism  
> \- Author writing children even though she has no clue about children  
> \- Absolutely no Christmas cheer whatsoever


	7. Chapter 7

Coming back is sobering to the extreme. Any residual high feeling immediately dissipates the second he sees the coffee shop from the outside. Once more, the place is virtually invisible. The fact that snow flurries block everyone’s vision isn’t helping, but if Castiel’s magic were still in place, they’d be looking up in the vicinity of the sign and seriously considering going inside to warm up for a minute or hour. Not one person stops.

Through the window, Castiel can see it’s almost empty. Dean is behind the counter, bundled up in yet another layer of shirt und from what it looks like in a foul mood, furiously wiping at what Castiel assumes to be a stain. His only customer is Chuck, who has his face buried in his hands and is actually wearing a beanie along with his bathrobe. Productivity and better heating both must have faded a few days ago. As well as the atmosphere of calm and relaxation he’s been working so hard on. 

It hurts.

He stays outside for a while, the icy wind blowing snow into the neck of his coat and slowly freezing his thighs. It’s okay. He shouldn’t have left for so long; otherwise it wouldn’t take so much concentration to renew his make-the-shop-more-noticeable charm. 

When he’s done with it, he considers just going home for the day, but one more look inside the window, where Dean appears to be cursing up a storm because he poured Chuck’s next coffee over his sleeve makes him decide this is not the time for subtlety. If he’s very lucky, Dean will simply attribute the pleasant changes to the fact that he actually likes Castiel. And Chuck already knows.

He hoped. He hoped he was wrong about this. That the shop didn’t actually need him. That maybe it could be okay if Dean understood what he’s been doing. That maybe, at long last, he could say yes to a cup of coffee after closing time.

He takes a deep, icy cold breath and walks inside.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean’s face lights up brighter and warmer than any Christmas tree, but Castiel has gotten all the confirmation he never wanted that this shop needs his magic. 

* * *

Maybe it’s the fact that the holidays are over and life is returning to normal, or maybe it’s just that he’s kind of really in love with Cas, but the second he comes back through that door, snowflakes melting in his wind-swept hair and nose red from the cold, things go uphill again.

More and more of Dean’s regulars return from their visits to their families, and a few new ones join them.

There are the two lady cops, Jody and Donna – Dean thinks are probably together – who first come here alone, and then start bringing two teenage girls, probably their daughters. The dark-haired one, Alex, chats with her moms a lot, some good-natured ribbing and toned-down teenage antics from what he can tell. But the blonde, Claire, takes a special liking to Cas.

It doesn’t even seem like a crush or anything, more like she took a look at him from under slightly raised dark eyebrows and decided to adopt him.

It’s not like they talk a lot, and at first Cas seemed adorably confused, but she sits down opposite him with a book a lot. She’s a sensor and enhancer, from what Jody tells him, and her parents died in an accident a while back. (Adopted daughter, then.) And it seems Cas looks quite a bit like her father.

Knowing this bit of information, it makes those little interactions, that bit of reaching out that she’s doing actually a little very heartbreaking, but Cas, being the ball of kindness and warmth that he is, truly seems to make her feel better about it. Sometimes, she even comes in on her own, orders a moccaccino and just sits with him for hours, each silent and with a book, but very much a harmonious entity.

Donna took one look at his cookie selection and decided this could not stand, so she’s been bringing by home-made ones, which Dean always insists on paying for and it always ends with Donna accepting the money, putting it in the tip jar, and grabbing a cookie or three for herself.

“Seriously, Dean, you’re doing my girls so much good. I also made a pie, but that’s just for you, do not hand it out to anyone else!” As if he would.

He likes her a lot. Whenever he gets away with it, she gets her chai latte on the house.

(And Cas treats the honey-filled oatmeal cookies like the best things that he’s ever eaten, so that’s a bonus that never fails to make Dean blush.) 

Another notable addition to the crowd is a beautiful dark-haired woman called Tessa, who’s sort of quiet and only ever gets her coffee to go, but always takes the first sip in the shop, sighs in relief and gives him a grateful smile. Judging by the scrubs she sometimes wears, she might be a doctor or a nurse.

After a while she comes in the company of a guy everyone jokingly starts calling ‘Death’, because that’s hands down what he looks like. Very boney face and hands just made for a scythe, usually clad in black, constant serious expression on his face. He starts by ordering his coffee black, but Dean, as a joke mostly, decides to make it his goal in life to make the guy drink colorful and sugary things.

The day comes when Death ends up taking his coffee with all the extras you can get, chocolate, caramel, extra frothy whipped cream, seasonal spices and whatnot.

He loves it.

“Figures you can even charm Death”, Charlie says with a laugh and there are amused titters from all over the coffee shop. Dean just catches Cas’ eye, wiggles his eyebrows outrageously and grins.

A personal victory is when Crowley, the crappy landlord, at some point walks in and does an almost comical double take.

“Well you’ve certainly turned this place around, Squirrel.”

And then proceeds to criticize the book selection. “What kind of colossal dumb-ass doesn’t have a Steven King collection?”

(He still stays for a caramel latte. And comes back regularly. “To check if you’re not running this place into the ground.” Dean is also pretty sure he uses his own set of keys to smuggle in old detective novels, worn paperback thrillers and books about dog care. He’d never admit to it, though.)

And then there’s Bobby.

Bobby, who is more family than anyone related by blood he has left (at this point probably including Sam). Bobby, who was the best uncle any kid could ask for, the best surrogate father when their dad stopped being able to function after Mary Winchester’s death, and the best employer Dean has ever had.

Truth be told, he felt bad about leaving the garage and salvage yard, even though Bobby had pretty much told him he could forget about coming over for pie anymore if he threw away the opportunity Dad’s money gave him.

But the second Bobby steps foot into **Noveltea & Coffee** – or more like wheels over the threshold – any remaining guilt basically evaporates, because he’s never experienced the old man so proud in his life. And because Bobby is an emoter who at the moment very obviously doesn’t care about keeping it in check, the entire shop begins to glow with that pride.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, but he does pull Dean into a very long and uncharacteristic hug and then claps his shoulder repeatedly.

“You did good, boy”, is all he says before wiping his eyes and ordering an Irish coffee. “Make it a strong one.”

Dean meets Cas’ eyes over the tables and almost melts from the pride reflected there. 

* * *

“Yeah, no, I don’t buy it.”

When Castiel comes in, Claire Novak is already sitting at their regular table, with raised eyebrows and her book of the day – **_Make Something Up – Stories You Can’t Unread_** by Chuck Palahniuk – and it fills him with warmth even though she barely gives him more than a slight lift of the corner of her mouth when he sits down opposite her. With a certain amount of amusement, he looks at the good-natured argument taking place between Charlie and Dean.

“Come on, Dean, how? How do you not believe in that kind of magic? Never mind all the great stories, look at the world we’re actually living in. Why shouldn’t it exist?”

Claire rolls her eyes hard at this and Castiel shrugs his coat off. It’s been a mild day outside, with the occasional glimpses of sunlight and blue sky, but he’s still glad for the warmth of the coffee shop.

“Cas, help me out here, don’t you agree that there’s no such thing as magic in the real world?”

Castiel almost laughs at this, as much as the exaggerated exasperation in Dean’s voice. He is relaxed and for once feels content just to be there with Dean. He still carries the happiness he brought Dean when Bobby Singer visited inside of him, which is probably why he actually rises to the bait.

“But you’re an emoter, Dean, as well as an empath. A quite strong one even, when you’re around people you’re attuned to.”

Dean looks surprised and Charlie slyly asks, “And how do you know that?” Which just demands some kind of ribbing in return.

“Well, you always get Charlie’s headaches for starters.”

At which Charlie groans, “Oh man, I thought I was hiding those so well…”

He carefully drapes the coat behind him in the way he likes and keeps talking, almost absent-mindedly.

“And you knew something was wrong with Benny days before he said anything, even though he didn’t act any differently. His grandfather had just died, and you felt his grief as clear as your own. You could hardly work even half an hour after he’d left again.”

Looking up at Dean is probably a mistake, because he could feel the pleasant surprise before, but seeing it is something else entirely. Let alone the wiggle of eyebrows and bright grin he gets now.

“Didn’t know you were paying that much attention to me, Cas.”

He feels all sorts of hot inside at the insinuation, which is probably why he keeps talking even though he really should stop. Really.

“You also make certain to spend more time chatting with people who are lonely, probably because it makes you feel lonely in kind. You touch the touch-starved, you pay attention to the unseen and unheard, and you smile at the ones in need of a little kindness.”

Oh.

Oh no, he _didn’t_.

His words hang there for a long moment, suspended in more than surprised eye-contact.

Quickly, Castiel looks back down and adds a much more casual “And you eat twice as many cookies when any of your customers is ravenous.”

He hears Dean let out a startled laugh at that. It’s followed by happiness, sudden, almost blinding. It almost brings tears to his own eyes how good it feels to be responsible for this. At the same time his heart sinks, because he knows this very much seems like encouragement for Dean to think Castiel is interested in him. 

“Pff, as if you need a reason to eat all our stock.” Charlie pipes up to Castiel’s immense gratitude. “What Cas is trying to say is that you’re a mushy do-gooder of an empath and empathy is one of the forms of magic in this world. You know, the kind that helps people.”

Dean starts making Castiel’s coffee, obviously needing the moment to get back to the previous topic.

“Uhm, yeah, sure. Empathy, mood control aka emoting, minor healing, sensing or enhancing other people’s energy or shit like that, even that clairvoyance thing Missouri claims to be able to do, that’s obviously real. But it has all to do with people, you know. It can be explained. By science. If you have to call that magic, fine.”

“Then why shouldn’t angels be real?” 

Castiel looks up with a start and catches Charlie’s eye from across the room. So she knows as well.

“Because! You’re telling me there are actual people out there able to change the laws of physics! That has nothing to do with the regular kind of ‘magic’ or whatever.”

“That’s the only reason? Because it seems unlikely?”

“No, not just unlikely. Illogical. And too convenient. Okay, sure, let’s believe there are people out there who can make rooms seem larger and the stars seem brighter and time speed up in a boring class. But don’t you think it’s a little too convenient that they apparently can’t do all that shit unless they’re completely selfless about it?”

Castiel has spoken before he can keep himself in check.

“Why would you say that?” 

“Because it automatically means no one can actually do it. Who’s ever even met an angel? They’re a myth installed to make people feel hope for humanity and to justify some shit that can’t be explained otherwise. I mean, come on, do you actually believe anyone ever does anything for selfless reasons? There’s no such thing.” 

“That’s way cynical, Dean,” is Charlie’s remark. 

“Yeah, maybe, but it’s true. No one does things just to be good to other people. They always get something out of it, even if it’s just feeling better about themselves. You think anyone gives some bum on the street a dollar to make that guy’s life better? They do it so they don’t have to feel guilty about having more money than him. So that they can tell themselves they’re good people.”

He brings Castiel’s coffee. His napkin reads:

" ** _Do I dare disturb the universe? "_**

**_–T. S. Eliot_ **

This time, the slight touch of his fingers to Castiel’s shoulder feels like a concession to himself, not to Castiel. Like he’s allowing _himself_ this, even despite the embarrassingly soul-baring speech Castiel has given not minutes ago.

(It’s still a question whose soul got bared more at any rate.)

“By your definition, your whole empathy-based actions are just to make yourself feel better, not the other person,” Charlie says with one hand on her hips and a shake of her head.

“Yeah, and that’s probably true.” Dean gives a shrug and goes back behind the counter. “I mean, I like to believe I’m a good enough person, but true selflessness is bullshit.”

“Then what about the clause of self-sacrifice?”

Alarmed, Castiel gives Claire a quick shake of his head to discourage her from speaking further, but she puts her book down, crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow at Dean. 

“Like, if someone were to keep denying themselves what they wanted just to be able to keep making others happy.”

“Sorry to shake your world-view here, kiddo, but no one is that good.” 

“Sometimes I can’t even believe you, Dean Winchester”, Charlie says with a disappointed shake of her head. 

Claire looks like she wants to make another remark, but Castiel quickly places his hand on top of hers and shakes his head solemnly.

“Leave it be. Thank you, but leave it be,” he says very quietly.

She huffs and rolls her eyes and he can almost hear her call him a dumbass in her mind, but she does go back to reading her book.

Castiel almost wants to laugh. He almost wants to cry.

Dean is looking at him strangely from behind the counter.

He takes a sip of his excellent coffee, puts his hand to the table and gets to work, Claire’s own enhancing abilities the same steady help as ever. 

* * * 

Charlie works in even more mysterious ways than whatever gods or stars anyone may believe in. And so even though Dean did not tell anyone his birthday was coming up, on January 24th, he gets a steady stream of heartfelt congratulations and even a couple of _presents_.

Donna baked him an absolutely phenomenal pecan-peach pie with a cinnamon crust to die for, which he gets two whole slices off until the rest of the regulars and irregulars at **Noveltea & Coffee** have had “just a little bit, just a bite to try” – and a second, _secret_ pie she smuggles to him underneath a dish towel, which he’s supposed to eat at home, without having to share it with _anyone_. He might love her a little.

Ellen and Jo even chauffeured Bobby here to give Dean a gruff pat on the shoulder and a beautifully crafted cherry-wooded picture frame with a picture taken at the last Thanksgiving they had together before his dad died.

Thanksgiving being the one day of the year when even in the darkest pits of alcoholism John Winchester made the effort to be a decent father, it’s a bittersweet memory of somewhat sincere smiles and the same old anecdotes repeated and both John and Dean sneaking shots when no one was looking.

And then Charlie proudly presents to him an action figure of the Comedian – Dean’s favorite character from **_Watchmen_** – and while he’s made his peace with the fact that the guy playing him in the movie looks disturbingly much like his dead dad, at the moment even just looking at this silly little figurine in yellow and black is a little much. 

All in all, Dean is severely more pie-fed and misty-eyed than he ever expected to be on his birthday by the time Cas shows up.

And Dean can’t lie about it, he’s been looking forward to seeing Cas on his birthday even before the surprise celebrations. Even if Cas didn’t know it was his birthday, it just would have been nice to see him on this date.

But it seems Castiel is in the loop as well, because as beautifully pink-cheeked and wind-swept as he looks – which would be gift enough – he’s also holding a parcel. It’s clumsily hand-wrapped in blue paper with little cartoon bees on them, a little cheesy, but obviously dear to the guy who bought it.

“Happy birthday, Dean”, he says with a smile and holds out the present.

“Thanks, man!”

Impulsively, Dean pulls Cas into a hug rather than accept the parcel right away. He’s aware that everyone in here is watching them, but at this point, he simply doesn’t give a damn.

And Cas, even though he doesn’t seem to grasp the concept of a hug and sort of keeps his hands down on his sides, one still clutching the present, is a damn joy to hug. Not only does he feel incredible against Dean – strong, hard body against strong, hard body even through the layers of clothing – and smells like the clear sunshine and melting snow late January is bringing; the sheer amount of emotion Dean is getting off him like this is enough to make his head spin.

Finally, because there is only so long a man can hug another extremely attractive man in public without responding inappropriately, he pulls away, claps a hand on Cas’ back twice while beaming at him, until Castiel with a carefully blank face badly masquerading the hum of nerves and excitement Dean is too tuned into now to ignore, steps back enough to actually be able to give him the present.

“Dean-…”, for a moment Cas actually seems lost for words, then some kind of earnest determination takes hold of him, “It’s the least I can give you.”

And before Dean can do something as incredibly wise and appropriate as kissing him senseless, he nods once, steps back further and gathers his things to go about his day again, leaving Dean standing in the middle of his coffee shop, speechless, heart pounding, so made of _love, love, love, stars be damned_ he feels like one of those fairies from **_Peter Pan_** who can only contain one emotion at a time. 

And finally, _FINALLY_ completely sure it’s not only him at all. 

* * *

Castiel has made a mistake. Like most mistakes in his life, it was made for the right reasons.

Becoming a librarian was a mistake, because he wasted years training for a job he would never get to work in. But he did it, because it was the only job he wanted to do and he knew it would be the best way for him to give good things to people. There are no regrets in a mistake like this, because for a while, it gave him the powerful and utterly essential illusion that he would lead a life not only happy, but meaningful.

In turn, becoming an accountant was a mistake, because it is not a job that gives him any sort of joy and doesn’t let him contribute anything worthwhile to neither society nor individuals. But he did it because at the time, his sister was in extreme financial trouble and he wanted to be able to take care of her. There are no regrets in a mistake like this either, just the slow unhappiness of consequences stemming from it.

Pouring all his magic into one literary coffee shop was a mistake, because it made him fall in love and be forever unable to allow himself to act on it. But he did it, because the coffee shop and its owner are both well worth helping out and it’s the first thing he’s done in years that feels right. There is no place for regret here. There is only gratitude.

So when Charlie informed him with glee that Dean’s birthday was coming up and Castiel wondered what he could possibly give Dean to show him his appreciation, digging out this old paperback seemed like the only choice befitting Dean.

Despite being a trained if failed librarian, he has avoided recommending books to any and all customers of **Noveltea & Coffee**, and has up until now even declined Dean’s requests for advice on what to read next or get for the shelves. Part of the reason for that was that Castiel himself only recently started reading again and all the books he reads Dean owns already.

He also hasn’t felt confident in knowing which book might benefit someone and the responsibility you take for potentially reawakening someone else’s traumata still seems like too much. They have a shelf dedicated to traumatic reading experiences that are whole-heartedly recommended but contain triggering elements.

(The newest addition to this is **_A Little Life_** by Hanya Yanagihara, which showed up when no one was looking and with a handwriting they assume is Ellen’s saying, ‘Physical and sexual abuse of a child, abusive adult relationship, self-harm, suicide, everyone deserves better than they get, you sob for at least 200 out of 800 pages, won’t let you go even a year after reading.’ Castiel has not dared read it yet – he has a feeling he should get it for himself and read it somewhere less public.)

It is the only shelf that remains untouched when Charlie reorganizes the books. Right now, they’re no longer sorted by genre, mood or historic age, but by color, a very aesthetically pleasing choice that Dean has protested on account of not ever finding what anyone is looking for anyone. Charlie just told him to ‘suck it up, Winchester’. Other books also have notes stuck in them with potentially disturbing themes pointed out, but the shelf is reserved for the extreme cases.

The paperback Castiel wrapped for Dean might belong on this shelf. It is definitely not an appropriate choice for a birthday – too grim, too hopeless, too horrible – but as soon as he thought of it, it seemed like the only choice at all. From what he knows about Dean and his novel preferences as well as his personality and history, he will love it almost as much as Castiel does.

And as much as he’s already given Dean, as much as he tries to give Dean every day, it feels good to actually physical give him this. Because Dean, in addition to being the best person Castiel has ever met, has effortlessly helped Castiel regain the most integral part of himself.

It was, as ever, a mistake made out of love. Which is the only way to make mistakes, really.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t change the fact that he went so beyond too far it feels like galaxies away. Giving Dean this novel was already too much like giving him a physical manifestation of Castiel’s heart, but the dedication he wrote in there is without a doubt the single most unintentionally romantic declaration anyone has ever written.

In hindsight, it seems incredibly foolish to follow through with giving Dean this book. Because even if he doesn’t take it as an encouragement for pursuing a relationship, it’s certainly testament to the deep friendship Castiel feels for him.

And true friendship is almost as dangerous as a romantic relationship.

Castiel has been thinking about this a lot since he came home. As a person who rarely experiences sexual attraction, even some of his former relationships have more closely resembled friendship than romance, at least on his part. Additionally, from the few friendships he has formed in his life, to him, there truly isn’t much of a difference between close friendship and a romantic relationship.

Meeting someone whose friendship you desire gives you the same almost uncomfortable feeling of needing to impress them, being good enough for them. Having that friendship reciprocated is equally elating than getting accepted as a romantic partner, it simply lacks the sexual component. You still begin to share your lives, make room for the other, take time out of busy days just to be with them. You make yourself vulnerable and trust them to care for you even when you cannot be good company. And you do your utmost to safeguard their own vulnerabilities in turn.

Most of all, you are grateful. For every small considerate deed, for every smile you’ve evoked, for every bit of interaction initiated just because they’re glad to see you. You’re grateful for the happiness the other brings.

And gratitude is the most dangerous thing Castiel knows.

To be on the receiving end of it is the simplest way for him to lose access to his powers. The kind of magic he possesses and is capable of dispensing, it hinges on not receiving any thanks, because receiving thanks would be a way for Castiel to _benefit_ from what he does.

Dean did have a point: True altruism is difficult, because doing good deeds always has the side-effect of making you feel good. And he can allow Dean to be grateful for many things about him: The book, the dedication, even his friendship. But the second Dean finds out about what Castiel has been doing for the coffee shop – and he’s closer to figuring it all out than he thinks – the friendship, the gratitude Castiel might receive will become payment of a debt.

He’s been walking a thin line for a long time, but now he has crossed it.

Whichever direction their relationship might develop into, it will be much closer than before. Hiding will become impossible.

So Castiel will have to retreat. Walk back behind the line of casual friendship and be little more than a good, steady customer. It is pain Castiel dreads, but knows he can bear. It is much worse that after this reckless act of trying to show gratitude, pulling back from him will also be painful for Dean, who did not deserve to be encouraged, only to be as thoroughly rejected as Castiel will have to.

There is the lingering feeling that he might be making a choice Dean should have a say in, and would probably very outspokenly oppose. It is a weighing of one part of Dean’s happiness against the other and Castiel has no right to make it for him

But looking around **Noveltea & Coffee**, he knows it is a decision he has to make nonetheless. Because it’s not just Dean’s happiness on the line anymore.

Without entirely meaning to, Castiel has started making a difference to so many people’s lives. He has created a safe haven for the desolate, the fighting and the broken, a place to rest and comfortably fall into fictional worlds, to leave with a boost of energy that is more than the raised heartrate of regular coffee. To carry a bit more warmth out into the world.

What right does he have to choose his own happiness over this?

What right, even, to choose Dean’s?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:  
> \- People thinking too much  
> \- Mentions of alcoholism  
> \- Mentions of child abuse (in one of the books recommended)  
> \- Oblivious Dean x1000
> 
> Btw, Dean and I share our birthday. :D


	8. Chapter 8

The book Castiel gave him is a worn paperback copy of Hubert Selby Jr.’s **_Last Exit to Brooklyn_**. Its cover is scuffed and the pages inside yellowing, and it is obviously Cas’ own copy.

Neatly on the outermost corner of the first page, Cas has written his full name – Castiel James Novak – and the date of purchase, which is almost sixteen years ago. Underneath that, in different pens and pencils, more dates are noted, presumable the times he’s re-read the novel. Dean counts twenty-three dates. The text of the novel itself doesn’t have comments in the margins, but passages are carefully underlined, and messy, enthusiastic exclamation marks fill up the space next to the words.

On the second page, Cas has written in an even smaller and tidier script:

**_‘Dean,_ **

**_This is the first book I ever read that made me realize_ **

**_the power of literature. It is a desolate book, one that_ **

**_all too clearly portrays what violently fragile, horribly_ **

**_vulnerable creatures we human beings are. But in every_ **

**_word, it is clear what great love the author has for even_ **

**_the most wretched of us. It’s a book that shows the great_ **

**_beauty we are capable of, the breath-taking poetry._ **

**_Once upon a time, this book taught me to love humanity_ **

**_with all its flaws, unconditionally and totally._ **

**_It has also taught me to love reading._ **

**_I’m giving this book to you, because I think you will enjoy_ **

**_it and find it life-enrichening as well. More importantly,_ **

**_I’m giving this book to you, because when I was at my very_ **

**_darkest, you taught me to love reading again. And to once_ **

**_more believe that human beings do deserve to be saved._ **

**_Happy birthday, Dean. And thank you._ **

**_Castiel’_ **

Dean didn’t unwrap it at the coffee shop, no matter how unsubtly Charlie nudged him to do so. He took it upstairs at the end of the day, got himself a beer out of the fridge and a bowl of pasta cooking and then carefully slit through the tape and peeled off the cheerful bee wrapping paper.

It was probably the best idea he’s ever had, because by the time he’s read the dedication four times, the pasta is boiling over and he actually needs to open a window to let in some of that starry-cold January air to calm himself down a little.

Because what he just got there as a simple birthday present is apparently the most important book Cas ever owned. The longer he holds it, the more it feels like a piece of Cas’ soul rather than an object. And Cas decided to give it to Dean. Like Dean is something special. Like Dean _deserves_ it.

He is really trying not to read too much into this, but this is the kind of thing you give to a long-term partner for your tenth anniversary, not your casual coffee provider moonlighting as a sort-of best friend. Especially with that kind of dedication. Holy crap.   

Dean puts the book on the folded wrapping paper, throws out the ruined pasta and puts on a new pot. 

Before this, Cas has been refusing to even _recommend_ a novel.

He finishes his food – hardly tasting it around the rushing in his mind – and then picks up **_Last Exit to Brooklyn_** again.

The first few pages are tough.

Seven hours later, he puts it down, exhausted, elated, upset.

* * * 

Today is the day.

Today, he is going to ask Castiel out. He’s going to do it unambiguously, explicitly – charmingly if he can, but definitely in a way that can’t possibly be misunderstood and will absolutely seem a lot less focused on physical desire only than the late-night bout of accounting probably could have been misconstrued as.

Because there’s not a doubt in his mind that Castiel very much wants the exact same thing Dean wants and is just for some reason too inhibited to make the first move. If the smiles passed between them, if the way Castiel spends hours in Dean’s silly little coffee shop every single day, if the strong longing and – if he isn’t mistaken – even desire have not been enough to convince him, Cas giving him this book finally is.

Even if he has been somewhat distant since Dean’s birthday.

In the end, it all comes down to the same thing. It’s been months of dancing around each other, and Dean needs to take the next step or he might actually go crazy.

He’s been waiting for the damn napkin all week.

In the end, he didn’t find what he wanted to say in a book quote at all. It’s a break from what he usually does, but God damnit, it’s time he took a chance.

**“There are two basic motivating forces: fear and love.**

**When we are afraid, we pull back from life.**

**When we are in love, we open to all that life has to offer**

**with passion, excitement, and acceptance.”**

**\- John Lennon**

It’s pretty damn clear what he’s trying to say with it, but lurking from behind a random book – the second installment of the rather excellent **_Shades of Magic_** trilogy by V.E. Schwab - to watch Cas read it, he doesn’t get quite the reaction he was aiming for.

Cas doesn’t even try to find Dean’s eyes, and nothing happens on his face. The only indication he might have understood at all is that Dean’s too-high pulse gets disturbed by a few tripping and stumbling heart beats that probably aren’t his own.

Okay, no philosophical discussion happening he can use to casually segue into a ‘Oh by the way, how would you feel about giving this thing we have a shot on a more romantic slash sexual level’. Dean will actually have to take even more initiative. Oh god.

At least Cas still carefully folds up the napkin like the others, so the sentiment probably isn’t wholly disgusting to him. 

For the entire duration of Cas’ daily visit, Dean is a nervous wreck. Cas seems to pick up on that, which makes things even more awkward, to the point of Castiel holding Dean back after he brought him his second cup and asking,

“Are you alright, Dean?”

And Dean just stuttering and blushing his way back behind the safety of the counter. So much for charming.

(“Oh, for my sake!”, Chuck moans somewhere across the room.)

It’s only when Cas leaves for the day with his usual heart-melting smile that Dean finally manages to take heart and quickly follows him outside.

“Uhm, Cas?”

“Yes?”

God, he looks good in the sunlight. Eyes a little squinty against the brightness, hair so soft-looking in the breeze. His skin is glowing, and Dean can hardly wait to see him in summer, when it’ll be sun-kissed and even more beautiful. 

“You ever want to go out? With me? A cup of coffee maybe? I mean, not here. Or here, if you want to. Or a movie. Or dinner. Because I-… I’d just really like that. With you.”

For a long moment, there is silence and Dean can practically hear both their hearts beating up a storm. He’s fairly certain he’s never been this red in his life and the hope pulsing through him is practically killing him because he can’t tell if it’s only his own.

“I-… Dean, that’s not-… it’s not a good idea.”

He should know better, he should see it for what it is, but he can’t help one last try, because it _isn’t a complete rejection, not yet_ , and he has to, he has to try, because this is going horribly wrong.

“Why not though? I mean, I like you. A lot.” Too much. “I mean, am I alone in this?”

It’s supposed to be a rhetorical question, but the sudden feeling of something sharp and terrible tells a different story.

And Castiel just shakes his head and says, “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry.

As in, yeah. You’re in this alone.

As in, no. I’m not interested.

(Not even a little bit.

Not even at all.) 

So they stand there, for what feels like ages, Dean still almost in the door of his coffee shop. His stupid worthless coffee shop, which felt so empty before Cas started showing up.

He feels drained, all of a sudden.

Castiel is still beautiful in the sunlight.

Beautiful and unattainable. 

“Oh”, is what he finally says. “I thought-… My mistake. Uhm, I hope this doesn’t make things weird for you. I mean, I really like our friendship, I’d hate to lose that. 

It’s hard to say even this much, when all Dean wants is to go back inside, drag himself up the stairs and lie in his bed for years. But he needs to.

Because everything has felt so empty before Cas started showing up.

“Dean…”

There’s that terrible thing that looks too much like kindness and too much like pity and the following words feel like a sucker punch.

“I don’t consider us friends.”

Unable to breathe there for a second there, Dean just keeps staring at Castiel’s lips. Which have actually just said that. That they’re not friends. Not even friends.

“If that’s all, I really do need to get going.”

It still doesn’t sound unkind, that is the worst thing, but when Castiel turns to leave, Dean has grabbed his shoulder before he can even think about it.

“But-… the book. You gave me the book. And you wrote-…”

Cas ruefully shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, Dean, I knew I should have chosen a less-… misleading gift. I merely wished to convey my gratitude to you.”

He tries to withdraw, but Dean won’t let go of his coat, not yet, not like this. _Not like this, damnit._ “Okay. Okay. Let’s back up for a second, here. So you don’t think we’re friends now. How about we start being friends then. Can’t we-… I really want you to be my friend, Cas.”

It sounds like the mindless babble of a desperate man even to his own ears and it trails off into the slightly muted noise of a train of cars passing by.

_Not like this. Please._

When Castiel takes a step back, Dean’s hand is still stubbornly, anxiously holding on to the trench coat and Cas very softly takes it in his own so that the fingers fall open. He cradles it for a second.

It feels so stupidly good in this horrible moment Dean wants to cry.

“I’m afraid that is not possible. I wish-…”

Cas sighs deeply and for the first time in this unthinkable exchange, his exterior seems to crack just a bit.

“Well, it’s not possible.”

Castiel lets go. Dean’s hand falls limply to his side. 

“Goodbye, Dean.”

Something is breaking as Dean watches Cas walk away from him and if it wasn’t Dean’s own little glass world of hopes and dreams and apparently really, _really_ unrequited love, he could swear it was Castiel’s heart.

* * *

He’s exhausted by the end of the day, in a way he hasn’t experienced since Cas first started coming here. He feels like he’s been walking on knives all day, or like maybe someone took a rolling pin and whacked it a few times against his all-too hopeful heart.

At least everybody in the café kept their mouths shut. Dean isn’t sure if he would have burst into tears if anyone had said anything or pummeled them into the ground, but anyways, it’s probably best no one commented.

He’s humiliated. He’s honestly at a loss where he went wrong, how he could have misread things so spectacularly. And it is one thing to be rejected as a romantic prospect or sexual partner, but for Cas to not even want to be friends-… Before this day, Dean actually assumed they already were. Bestest of friends with a pit of mutual pining that just needed acting on.

As he wearily says goodbye to Charlie – who’s been sending him worried glances since he slouched back in but who thankfully abandoned every surge of wanting to talk to him about it as soon as it arose – and then goes through the lock-up routine much more sloppily than ever before, he wonders if Cas will even come back and concludes that he probably won’t.

So not only has Dean made a fool out of himself of astoundingly epic proportions, he’s managed to chase away their most loyal customer. Which was part of the reason Dean waited so long to ask him out to begin with: He waited until he was as good as sure his feelings were not one-sided.

He tries to imagine this place without Castiel and gives up in the middle of wiping down the counter. There were more spills than usual today and he wants to blame his stupid heartbroken ass, but even just imagining not having Cas there anymore feels like someone tore the heart out of the coffee shop.

When did that attractive soaked stranger turn into the very soul of the place? Dean is almost certain it’s not just because he was stupid enough to fall for the guy.

“When you walked out of the rain and into my coffee shop”, he quotes quietly, then trails off.

Suddenly, he needs a drink, more ferociously than he has in months.

Abandoning the work for now, he simply turns off the lights and drags himself up the stairs. He’ll set an early alarm for tomorrow, but for now, he hears that bottle of whiskey he still has stashed somewhere calling to him.

He usually likes his place, small as it is. He likes the sofa he specifically bought before moving here and that Sam helped him carry up the way too narrow windings of the staircase. He likes the coffee table, which always makes him feel irrationally mature, and the precision of how parallel the remotes are on it. He likes the coaster he uses when he drinks a beer while indulging in a few episodes of ‘Dr. Sexy, MD’, a show about doctors over-imbued with extra magical abilities and extra sexual tension.

He likes his book-cases, even though some of his personal favorites have migrated downstairs. He likes the narrow ceilings that made Sam throw a hissy-fit the first time they’d prospected the place. They made him feel right at home, even though he’s banged his head more times than he can count since moving in. He likes his small and orderly kitchen and his well-stocked fridge. He likes the tiny bathroom and the shower with surprisingly great water pressure. He loves his bed with the memory foam mattress and linens he actually spent money on for the first time in his life.

Right now, he almost considers walking right back out and finding a bar instead. It’s Monday – God, he’ll have to go through the whole rest of the week before he can go on a real bender – but it’s barely nine pm, so something should be open and serving whatever booze he can afford to drink considering his early start into the day.

Yesterday, he thought he’d bring Cas up here soon. That they’d watch TV together – maybe something less embarrassing than ‘Dr. Sexy’ at first, but they’d work up to it. They’d use two coasters and the beer would go warm, because they’d end up making out more than watching anything.

That some of Cas’ books would migrate into his book shelves and that the first time they were up here, Cas would let his palm rest on them, the way he did with most surfaces downstairs whenever he got the chance and he would smile and ask Dean if he made them himself as well. And Dean would answer yes, he made most of the furniture in his apartment and Cas would walk over to him and kiss him.

They’d try out the water pressure together. He’d have to ask Charlie to take over for a couple of days, because they wouldn’t leave bed for at least forty-eight hours. And in between, Dean would cook something nice and Cas would look at him in that soft way and Dean would know that this is it, this is the only thing he’ll need for as long as he’s alive.

It’s almost paralyzing, how easy it has been to picture.

Instead, he dejectedly digs out a bottle of whiskey in a nice twisted homage to the whiskey he and Cas drank that one time before he bolted – obviously because he realized their feelings did not match up. Even then, Cas probably realized that.

It’s the bottle he hasn’t touched since New Year’s, and as alluring as the amber liquid looks, he can’t even bring himself to pour it, because he remembers that one of the unspoken reasons Sam talked him into a coffee shop rather than a bar was that he drinks too much.

Well, fuck him. Pizza and whiskey sounds like the absolutely best plan for today.

And he’s been so caught up in Cas and the book and the exhilaration and the upset that he hasn’t even checked his birthday texts, so he might as well do that while he waits for the  frozen pizza to bake.

Feeling at least moderately satisfied with his plans for this miserable excuse of an evening, Dean grabs the phone. There are several happy birthday messages he has not read yet and he skims them absent-mindedly, before stopping on a text actually sent by Sam.

It’s a simple, tentative ‘Happy Birthday, Dean’ and he’s reading it almost a week too late – late enough that the momentum for semi-uneasy back-and-forth texting has passed.

But still. He wrote. Sam wrote.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Dean has dialed his brother’s number.

Sam picks up on the seventh ring.

“Dean, hi!”

He sounds breathless and nervous and despite himself, Dean grins.

“Heya, Sammy, how’s it going?”

“Uhm, good! Good.”

There’s an awkward pause, but Dean will absolutely not let that ruin his sudden and long-overdue bout of bravery.

“Come on, little brother, tell me about stuff. What’s new? How’s California? The chicks on the beach as hot as the movies make them out to be?” 

It’s stilted as fuck – and it has been seven months of probably mutual resentment and guilt, so no surprise there – but Dean is glad. He is so glad he made this call, because it was a dumb thing to say, but Sam laughs, a small, almost shy thing.

“Actually, uhm, I have a girlfriend now. Together four months. Don’t really need to look at anyone else anymore.” 

And Dean’s grinning now and leaning forward into the call. “Get right outta here, someone actually likes your ugly mug?”

He can hear Sam’s smile on the other end, can practically picture the way it lifts the corners of his mouth like a wonderful secret.

“Well, her name is Jess. She’s a law student with a minor in environmental studies – we met at this rally a few months ago.”

“Look at you living the student life.”

“Yeah it’s-… It’s good.”

There is a moment of weighty silence, before Dean breathes in and bravely proclaims: 

“You should come over here sometime. Flight’s on me, this place is actually making a profit now.”

And just like that, the wall is breaking, the well is flowing over, whatever metaphor applies here. And Dean feels so dumb for ever having been mad at his stupid big-hearted idiot of a younger brother.

“Listen, Dean, I really am sorry. I know we were supposed to do this together.”

“Sam-…”

“No, no, it’s not okay. I let you down.”

He should have called so much earlier.

“And I know you’re worried about me, I know, but I really wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t the only thing-… I just need to do this, Dean. And I promise, I promise I won’t kill myself. I mean, I have Jess now. And you. I would never do that to you.”

“Stop it right there, Sammy.”

The other side of the line goes quiet as Dean tries to steady his breathing long enough to say what he needs to.

“I should have known you’d want more out of life. I’ve been a pretty shitty brother for not supporting you. I mean, you’ve been wanting this for a while, but I had my head so far up my ass that you couldn’t even talk to me about it. And helping people is sort of what you do. And-… I trust you. If you say you can handle it, I trust you.”

“Dean-…” 

Dean can tell Sam is going to say something sappy. He probably has tears in his eyes or some such. Dean certainly hasn’t. It’s just a dust mote or something, because no matter how vigorously you clean, those things are freaking everywhere.

“And the coffee shop is going great. I mean, really. It was a damn good concept and it works and if it’s that much fun for me, you’ll probably have a full-blown nerd-attack when you see it.”

Sam clears his throat a couple of times and says:

“I’ve got spring break coming up. I’ll look into a flight right now.”

“Bring that Jess girl, if you can convince her to come. I’ve got a story or two about you she might be interested in hearing…”

Sam groans. “Don’t you dare.”

And when Dean hangs up, he feels so much lighter that he puts the bottle away unopened and actually goes back downstairs to finish his clean-up.

So what if Cas is never coming back and took a chunk out of his heart before he left.

He has created a beautiful business and he’s going to show his little brother that he may not be some fancy-ass healer with a big fat salary – though knowing the dork, he’ll probably join _Doctors without Borders_ or something and won’t make any money at all – but this? It’s something good.

It’s something good.

Even without Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:  
> \- Here come's the part of our story / That gets a little bit sad  
> \- No, really, basically just heartbreak here  
> \- The sappiest dedication anyone has ever written inside a book  
> \- Mentions of alcoholism  
> \- Dean objectifying women (trust me, it's nowhere near as bad as in canon)


	9. Chapter 9

Castiel almost couldn’t make himself cross the threshold the first day after Dean asked him out. Even just getting up had been an almost insurmountable obstacle, but going back to this place where he’d have to see Dean and know he hurt him seemed like the second most difficult thing he’s ever done.

The first obviously being not just taking Dean up on his offer.

He’d never seen Dean in the sunlight before, had never seen the way his freckles stood out against his skin, the way his hair was suddenly dipped in gold.

He’d never seen Dean smile so shyly before, had never heard Dean stutter his way through a sentence so much.

He’d never seen Dean look so devastated.

Every word Castiel had said felt like a new brand of cruelty. He’s not even sure it was necessary to be that vigorous in not letting Dean into his life, but who knows how sensible his abilities are?

What if having Dean as his friend is just as bad as having Dean as his boyfriend? What if it feels too much like using his abilities to make himself feel happy by making his friend happy? What if it’s no longer selfless if he allows Dean to be his friend?

In the end, Castiel had made his choice and it was rejection and dejection and utter misery, so at least his magic should flourish like never before.

Dean actually stopped what he was doing for a moment when Castiel finally walked through the door, eyes met unwittingly and for a moment too long. Like he didn’t expect Castiel to come back either. Like maybe he hoped he wouldn’t. And Cas was hit by a wave of pain so strong he couldn’t even tell whose it was.

Dean looked away after this, of course, and when Castiel settled down onto his regular table, for the first time it was Charlie who came over to serve him. It was obvious she knew what happened, but she didn’t seem to condemn him. Her smile was encouraging. The comforting kind you give to a friend in need of reassurance.

Castiel wondered just how many people in here considered him a friend.

If he could ever allow any of it. 

He got to work.

* * *

He gets to work every day.

And Dean never comes over to serve him anymore, but professional that he is, he does meet Cas’ eyes for a few seconds and smiles like he’s glad to see him, even though the pain feels as sharp and throbbing as ever.

And because Dean is an empath and the atmosphere Castiel has created has the side-effect of enhancing this as well, he also picks up on Castiel’s misery and right-out _longing_ , which doesn’t make things easier for either of them.

He overheard the writer Chuck say to Missouri Moseley: “These two are giving me the worst headache of my life.” Which made sense, with Chuck being a highly sensitive empath. It made Castiel feel even worse, especially after Missouri answered with a high-eye-browed “Tell me about it”.

Clearly, everyone – Dean most of all – must be wondering what Castiel is even doing, still coming here.

But it’s not like Castiel can stop.

And it’s not like he can let himself have Dean.

So he just falls a little deeper each day. Into despair, in love; it is the same thing for him, ultimately.

By now, Castiel has – in addition to all the previous workings of his magic on **_Noveltea & Coffee_** – made it easier to focus on reading and to immerse oneself completely into whatever it is one is reading, while always looking at one’s watch at exactly the right time to be able to leave at a leisurely pace.

People have described their reading experiences as more intense than they’ve experienced since childhood – actually some have remarked it feels reminiscent of having their mothers, fathers, grandparents or siblings reading to them as children: the same kind of giddy excitement suffused with the knowledge and feeling of absolute safety.

In addition, Castiel has altered the tactile sensations to maximum comfort. He has seen hands stroke absent-mindedly back and forth across the grain of the wooden tables, smooth along the cups, caress the pages and spines of the books.

The chairs and armchairs become perfectly molded to whoever sits there and the cups always feel like things you hold in the freezing cold to warm up your hands. (Incidentally, the beverages also stay the perfect temperature much longer than usual and never scald anyone.)

He has given the entire coffee shop such an intense vibe of calm and relaxation that even strangers off the street immediately felt better upon entering and more than one regular has remarked that coming here feels like being able to breathe freely.

Pulses slow down, muscles relax, nerves unclench, both figuratively and literally. He’s never gotten to use his healing powers as much as he does here, but also no one has dropped a cup in months. No one has raised their voice or yelled at anyone in about the same time. Even the most stubborn of passers-by in a very bad mood instinctively lower their voices, and harsh orders or undeserved complaints dissolve into kinder words than they meant to say.

It’s truly become quite absurd how alive this place is with Castiel’s magic and how long he has to spend to simply keep it all going.

And he’d be so proud, so humbled by the difference he makes in the lives of the people who have found a second home here, if it wasn’t for Dean.

Because it was one thing to be so very in love with Dean and to relish seeing him almost every day and to improve his life. But to know his feelings are very much reciprocated and to have to choose against being with Dean every single day…

Well, his magic thrives in self-sacrifice. 

Recently, he has mastered the flow of _time._

So it’s worth it, sort of. He makes people happy. His life has far more meaning than ever before.

Yet despite all the good he does, he’s miserable. He puts on a brave face and a hand to his table, pretends to read his book until his magic has reached every last place it’s supposed to go, and then can’t actually focus on reading, because he cannot benefit from his own magic and he is _distraught_.

And all he can see is Dean and his smile and the way he pretends to still be happy to see Castiel even though he told Dean _he didn’t even want to be friends_ and the echo of that pain has not mellowed in the least.

* * *

It has been nagging him the entire day. More than that, it’s been a near constant state since that disastrous attempt at getting himself a date. A little _ping-ping-ping_ at his senses, growing louder and louder until even trying to shut off any empathy still leaves him hollow and aching.

It’s worse because he wants to be mad at the guy, but one look at those sad, wise eyes and he just can’t muster up any semblance of anger. One hint of that never-ending misery that’s been looming over Castiel like the kind of cloud he came in here to escape, and all Dean wants is for things to go back to the way they were.

He misses his friend.

But that’s not what Cas is missing.

With a sigh, he holds back Charlie, who’s about to serve Chuck his latest cup of black. “Charlie?”

“Yep?”

Perky as always and the least likely to judge him for the super-weird request he’s about to make.

“Any chance you can go over to Cas and touch him? Just somewhere. His arm or something, for a couple of seconds.”

“Why?”

“Uhm, he’s so touch-starved my skin is aching, and I can’t stand it any longer?”

“No, I mean, why can’t you do it? It’s not a hardship or anything and I’m always happy to do a good deed, but I’m pretty sure a bit of physical contact with you might work, you know, better.”

“Come on, you know why I can’t.”

She just regards him for a long moment, face turning uncharacteristically solemn. “I really wish-…”, she breaks off. “But it’s not my place.”

And that just kind of pisses him off.

“You know, everybody keeps saying that. Even Cas said that. ‘I wish.’ What does that even mean? He tells me he doesn’t wanna go out with me and that we’re not friends and that we can’t be friends, and then he says, ‘I wish’, as if that made anything better. Or explained anything.”

“You really should talk to him about this, not me.”

“It’s bullshit. Of course we were friends. And it fucking sucks that we’re not now.”

“So go over there and, you know, touch him. Platonically. You said it yourself, he needs it.”

He groans.

“Come on, leave me with a little bit of dignity, woman.”

His resistance is half-hearted at best and they both know it. Not like he has a whole lot of that left where Cas is concerned anyway.

Maybe that’s why Charlie cuts him a break and changes the subject. “Says the guy who actually confessed to liking both **_Pride and Prejudice_** _and **Jane Eyre**_ …”

He throws his arms up mock-defensively. “Hey, I don’t want to hear a single damn thing against my very manly crush on Mr. Rochester!”

“I just don’t see you as Jane, no matter how self-deprecating you get in the face of the Founding Father of Emo…”

“That would be Lord Byron, actually, not Mr. Rochester.”

He wiggles his eyebrows with a grin and it earns him a patented Charlie-grin and a high-five. Looking up, he finds Cas looking at him. It’s almost automatic how his brain turns Charlie’s enthusiasm down and amplifies Cas’ general misery once more. He keeps looking at him long after Cas has averted his eyes.

Charlie follows his gaze, sighs long-sufferingly and a few minutes later, walks over to Castiel, gives him a cookie and then suddenly grasps Castiel’s hand in both of hers.

It’s almost startling how much of a relief it is, even for Dean, even from a distance. And how much it isn’t.

It’s almost like Cas is already feeling her letting go and depriving him of this, to the point where he can hardly appreciate the touch while it’s happening. God damnit, that guy needs a hug. A nice long one.

Charlie is still holding his hand and whispering something Dean can’t understand. His gut hollows out even more as Cas slowly shakes his head and answers just as quietly. His eyes flit over to Dean for a second, and Dean, startled, quickly turns around.

Even so, he can feel it when Charlie lets go.

And when Cas gets up to leave, his usual more than generous tip on the table next to a napkin that reads **_‘As you wish’_** (the irony both of Charlie’s selection and the fact that Castiel for once does not take it with him is not lost on Dean), Dean is suddenly almost surging to the other side of the room to ‘accidentally’ bump into him. Physically. His hand ever so casually coming to rest on Cas’ upper arm. And when their eyes meet, he still doesn’t step back.

“Hey man, you okay?” Dean murmurs in a low voice.

And part of him wants to immediately balance out this bit of kindness with something nasty and scathing like ‘Actually, never mind that. Why the fuck should I care, we’re not friends.’ But instead, he lets his hand linger on Castiel’s elbow and just keeps looking at him.

They’re close. They’re so incredibly close. They can feel each other’s body warmth, even where they aren’t touching. Cas is just slightly smaller than him. It’s a good height.

It’s dizzying, how good he suddenly feels. So close. It’s a thrill. It’s gratitude. It’s deep, confusing pain. It’s loneliness, it’s longing, it’s want want want-…

Cas’ eyes fall to Dean’s lips for a second and he can’t help pulling the bottom lip inward with his teeth to wet it with his tongue. The desire is so sharp now, he’s moments away from popping a boner in his own coffee shop.

Then Cas looks away, shakes his head as if to clear it and steps back. Dean’s hand falls away.

He doesn’t answer the question, but he does give Dean a very warm (and incredibly sad) smile.

“Thank you, Dean.”

And leaves.

Dean has to excuse himself into the back room and not even to take care of surprise erections, but to wipe the heel of his hand over wet eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:  
> \- Sad boys


	10. Chapter 10

Yes, things were always going to boil over in some form or other, but this is not how Castiel imagined it happening.

He did not – NOT – invite Gabriel into **Noveltea & Coffee**. Yes, his older brother is in town and yes, they were supposed to meet up somewhere, but the last thing he expected was for Gabriel to suddenly plop down opposite Castiel on one of the chintz chairs with a whistle and a “Jeez, little brother, just how much of yourself did you pour into this place?”

“Gabriel. I didn’t-…” _…tell you I was here._

“You didn’t have to, this place basically screamed your _mmmmagical signature_ at me when I walked past.”

He looks around very ostentatiously, then shakes his head in well-placed mocking. “And it’s even worse in here. How many hours do you spend in this place every day?”

It’s a grudging admission, but it’s not like Castiel can hide the truth now. “Two or three, depending on my mood.”

“And let me guess, the reason for that just walked in from the back room and is now coming over.”

Indeed, a quick look towards the counter reveals that Dean is looking at them with a frown.

“Gabriel-…”

As usual with his brother, any warning falls on purposely deaf ears.

“Oh, he’s an empath, totally in love with you and you’re uncomfortable, so he’s on his way to rescue you from that silly little man who’s bothering you.”

And there he is. At Castiel’s table, for the first time since the end of it all.

“Hello, my name is Dean Winchester. I’m the owner of this place. Anything I can get you?”

He sounds frosty and fixates Gabriel with a glare that’s only disrupted by the short glances he gives Castiel, as if to check he’s okay.

“How about the sweetest bit of hot chocolate with whipped cream you can whip up, sugar? And when I say sweet, I mean saaweeeet. Sweeter than that big ol’ crush you have on my little brother here, Deano.”

Dean actually sputters. It’d be cute if his ears weren’t a flaming red suddenly and Castiel very much has to look somewhere else while kicking his brother under the table with a hissed “Gabriel!” Apparently, he kicked a little too hard, because Dean actually jumps a little and then rubs his shin. Gabriel – the little fucker – seems completely unaffected though.

“And the plot thickens…” he whistles with a shit-eating grin.

“I’m very, very sorry, Dean,” Castiel grinds out through his embarrassment and Dean makes a silly, helpless sort of wave with his hand before hastily retreating.

“Well he’s dreamy. You hitting that yet?”

Through gritted teeth, Castiel grinds out, “We are not talking about this here and I would appreciate it if you could find it in you to refrain from causing a further scene.”

Gabriel dons his most innocent look (not convincing in the least) and puts a finger over his mouth in the universal gesture for ‘silent as the grave’, which Castiel would actually like to put him into at this exact moment in time.

Castiel huffs, turns back to his novel. He’s halfway through the absolutely breath-taking **_Beloved_** by Toni Morrison and having Gabriel here is pretty much the last thing he needs.

But as determined as he is to resolutely ignore his older brother from this point onward, Gabriel, of course, after no less than twenty seconds, starts humming obnoxiously. Thanks to Castiel’s magic it at least doesn’t carry to the next table.

Castiel is incredibly grateful he’s already finished most of his spells for the day and they can leave soon.  

It’s Charlie who brings over the hot chocolate, with Dean still hiding a humiliated blush behind a book – Kerouac’s **_On the Road_** – he’s not actually reading. It’s also very obvious they tried their best to ruin the beverage, but Castiel’s magic prevented it to an almost comical degree.

The milk – clearly supposed to have been burned – is frothy and thick; the whipped cream – obviously meant to have been made in too short a time and to collapse unappealingly – is melting into the chocolate delectably. Even the six packets of additional sugar that have been stirred into it out of spite unfortunately exactly hit Gabriel’s taste to the point where he actually stops in the middle of his first sip, puts the cup down, sits back for a moment and, below a beautiful cream mustache, says very matter-of-factly:

“Castiel, this is the single most delicious drink I have ever had. What the hell are you doing to this place.”

* * *

If there’s one thing Dean’s day does not need – and this is not a comment on the quality of the day he’s been having, though he’s had significantly better – it’s to ever see Cas’ brother again.

“Deano”, he says, smirking in the absolutely most obnoxious manner. Seriously, Crowley’s sitting in the corner, immersed in **_The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy_** (snorting every once in a while in amused derision, and good God, was that a _giggle_ ) and even he could take notes. 

“Christ, not you again.”

Dean is already looking for Charlie, but she seems to be busy having a nice little tea-party with Ellen and Jo and isn’t looking his way. Of freaking course.

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll be glad I took the time to talk to you, believe me. And ‘Gabriel’ ’s fine.”

And that’s just Dean’s luck. The dude is probably here to give him a lecture on Castiel’s very delicate feelings he’s hurting by – how did he call it – ‘his big ol’ crush’.

But the guy says something different entirely.

“Are you aware that my dear brother is a literal angel? As in one of those rare, mythical bona-fide altruists who can make the world a better place just by willing it so?”

And everything sort of comes to a sudden and complete stop.

“What?” 

“Are you also aware that since he first came here, he’s been pouring hours and hours’ worth of concentration into this place to make it the super-pleasant establishment it is today?”

“No, he can’t have-…”

“Deano, Deano, Deano”, he clicks his tongue and shakes his head disapprovingly, “think about it. When was the last time you burned a single coffee? When has a customer unleashed their misplaced wrath at their boss on you? Why can you barely hear the cars that are driving right past your window? Have you ever seen anyone leave here who did not at the very least look a little more relaxed? Trust me, Deano, I can literally feel his magic in everything and I don’t even know where to start. Like, how could you not notice that people actually become immersed in the books here to an absurd degree? That TIME PASSES SLOWER IN HERE THAN OUT IN THE REAL WORLD.”

And this makes so much sense Dean feels like the world’s greatest idiot, which in any other situation would piss him off, because he can’t think of _one_ person on earth he wants to look less like an idiot in front of than Castiel’s horrible brother. As is, he’s still preoccupied with everything falling in place with such shocking accuracy, when the guy says _this_ :

“Oh honey, every single surface in here is screaming ‘Castiel was here and he’s in love with the cute barista’.” 

Wait.

Wait, what-…

“I don’t understand-... he’s-… He-…” He actually has to take a moment to gather his thoughts. He wishes that guy didn’t feel so damn smug.

“But he said no. He didn’t even want to be my friend.”

There is actual finger-wagging, but Dean can hardly see it over how loud his brain is with too many thoughts at once.

“Ah, Dean, this is where we come to the crux of things. A little choice you’ll have to make. Surely, you know that Castiel’s particular brand of magic cannot work if he’s doing it for his own benefit. That it actually flourishes from personal sacrifice. Dating you? It’d mean he wouldn’t be doing this just for you anymore; he’d be getting something out of it. Like gratitude blowjobs or a back-room boink after hours because you’re happy everything’s going so damn well here. Hell, he’s probably being overly cautious with the friends thing, but if there’s one thing Cassie doesn’t do, it’s take risks with other people’s well-being. ”

“Now you can ignore what I just told you – because believe me, I certainly won’t be telling my little bro we’ve had this chat – and have him keep coming here to fill your café/library hybrid with every bit of altruistic love that’s in him, keep it all real magical and your hot chocolate the best in the world. And he _will_ keep coming, because his bleeding heart can’t bear to let you down, and to be fair, his life doesn’t exactly have a lot of purpose otherwise anyway. Or…”

He pauses dramatically.

“Or, you can take a good look around, see that you’ve established a decent reputation and more than a few regulars if I’m not mistaken, put some light into the windows so that people don’t need magic to notice this place exists and say sayonara to easy never-burning coffee and enhanced old book smells and hello to Castiel the potential love of your life. To, you know, put us all out of this hella tropey misery of misunderstandings and mutual pining, alliteration intended.”

“Amen to that”, Missouri Moseley says from her corner. 

“Hm, just before the magic wears off”, Gabriel adds quite casually, “I’ll take a hot chocolate to go. Try to ruin it again, if you could be so kind.”

More than befuddled, it takes Dean a moment to understand the request.

“And by the way, that guy in the corner?” He points at Crowley of all people, “Also an altruist. Very much clashes with his sworn hatred for humanity. He’s really fixed up the dog park though.”

* * *

There is something different about Dean today. When he spots Castiel coming in, he actually drops the espresso cup he was carrying. Which means he must be a nervous wreck, because that is almost impossible at this point. Obviously, the cup lands on the counter unharmed, without even sloshing over, and then he stares at that as if he’s never seen anything more perplexing and alarming in his life.

When Castiel is seated, Dean prepares his cup of coffee, seemingly incredibly focused on that, then spends a good two minutes picking up and putting down his choice of literary napkin of the day before finally bringing the coffee over himself.

But halfway to Castiel’s table, he meets Castiel’s confused gaze, goes beet-red and turns sharply to the right, where he bumps into a table. The table doesn’t budge; Ellen, who is seated there, doesn’t even look up. Neither the coffee in Dean’s hand nor the one on the table spills a drop.

Dean then looks at that table for such a long time that eventually, Charlie takes the cup from him and brings it to Castiel.

“He’s an idiot, don’t mind him”, she says with an apologetic shrug and one of those lopsided smiles that look like sunshine.

He nods and accepts the cup as well as some of the comfort, but he still finds it harder to focus on his work today, because Dean is like a big exclamation mark of confusion and nerves wandering about the room, a bit too loud and seemingly flabbergasted he still doesn’t disturb any of his customers.

After fifteen minutes of this, Missouri Moseley leans in to the writer Chuck – who has buried his face in his hands and keeps groaning “I have a deadline, I have a deadline” – and says “You should go home, no way are you going to get any writing done today. Something’s about to blow,” and Castiel is afraid she’s right.

Now Dean is staring at the ceiling as though he’s never seen his lamps before and it’s making it hard for Castiel to renew his magic on the lighting. It’s not like there’s a lot to do – the atmosphere is still warm and soft and suitable for reading, but Castiel is afraid even the slightest shift might actually for once alert Dean to what he is doing.

Instead, he pours all his energy into sending out calm. It’s a bit too much and Ellen actually falls asleep over her book – Haruki Murakami’s **_1Q84_** ( _that_ ’s bound to give her a strange nap experience) – but for once, Dean seems completely unreceptive. Actually, he seems like he’s fighting it, which means Castiel should probably stop. Chuck packs his laptop up, now muttering “Today, they have to do this today, I have a deadline, this is too much conflicting shit, out of all days _today_ …” and Castiel has rarely felt so helpless. He should just leave, right? He should just leave.

Instead, he walks over to Dean, who has been opening and closing the front door for the past six minutes.  

“Are you alright, Dean?”

And Dean just stares at him breathlessly for a moment, eyes completely locked on Castiel’s.

“Can you, uhm”, Dean begins, falters, comes to a stop, seemingly searching for something in Castiel’s eyes. The silly phrase ‘eye sex’ enters Castiel’s brain unbiddenly and is very much in accordance of how fast both their pulses seem to flutter, but at the same time, he can sense this is not quite what is happening right now.

Dean eventually visibly steels himself and says quite seriously, “Can you come back around closing time today? There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

And Castiel knows, he knows he shouldn’t feel his heart soar in hope again, not after all the trouble he went through to thoroughly reject Dean the last time they were alone together, but still, his first thought is that maybe he can finally stop pretending.

Dean must feel it too, because his nervous energy seems to double and he gives Castiel an almost shy smile before quickly glancing somewhere else and scratching the back of his head. “Please?” he adds in a small, embarrassed voice, as if Cas was ever going to decline.

(Actually, he probably should.)

“Of course, Dean.”

Dean, still leaning on the door, almost falls out of the coffee shop when it swings open.

“Great! Good. Uhm. See you then.”

* * *

Simply put, Dean is a first-rate fool with his world completely tilted off its axis. Because Gabriel – douche bag that he is – is right. Of course he’s right. What’s worse is that the longer he walks around the coffee shop with his eyes open, the more obvious it gets.

Every little thing makes sense now. 

He feels completely swept up in it, now that he understands. He thinks of Castiel’s reaction when he announced he was keeping the shop open over Christmas. He thinks of how the rest of his regulars responded to the debate about angels and feels even more the idiot, because _they_ obviously all knew.

He thinks of Cas’ hand, always resting on the table, the slow focus he puts into his reading.

The wondrous and absolute dedication apparent in everything he does.

He’s been in love with Castiel Novak, nerdy little dude in a trench coat, for a good long time, but he’s never been completely overwhelmed with it before.

And it’s kind of horrible, because now he knows the reason his silly little coffee shop only feels like home with Cas in it is that it needs his magic to flourish.

He’s never faced conflicting emotions so strong.

Should he feel pitied? Ashamed that it’s not Dean himself who made **Noveltea & Coffee** the beautiful and well-loved place it is? It’s not his accomplishment after all and all the pride he’s previously felt seems like it should feel hollower now.

Should he feel gratitude? He does – bone deep, painfully solid gratitude – but from every single thing Cas has done in regard to him, it’s more than clear he not only doesn’t want gratitude, but actually fears it.

Should he feel encouraged? Hopeful? After all, this very likely means his feelings – or his friendship at the very least – are absolutely reciprocated.

But Gabriel said his brother had no other meaning in life, so maybe he actually does just come here to feel useful?

And does Dean even have the right to call Castiel out on what he’s been doing when that means it cannot continue? If it’s Cas’ whole reason for getting up in the morning, what right does he have to disturb it? And very selfishly, Dean doesn’t want to lose the way the coffee shop feels either.

“Are you alright, Dean” and “Of course, Dean”, Cas said, and Dean almost imploded with the kindness coming from this beautiful man and his own helplessness in the face of it.

Truth be told, he has no idea what he’ll say when Cas comes back tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:  
> \- Gabriel ex machina  
> \- Gabriel in general a.k.a. second hand embarrassment  
> \- Probably unjustified hilarity


	11. Chapter 11

There are four reasons, Castiel surmises, Dean could possibly want to talk to him in private.

The first is that he has enough and doesn’t want to see Castiel in his coffee shop again. A good, solid reason, since it’s painfully uncomfortable to be around each other at times and it wouldn’t be a request Dean could make in front of the rest of his customers.

The second is one more attempt to get Castiel to go out with him. This, he judges to be unlikely, because honestly, how much rejection can one person take before closing themselves off to any possibility? He also desperately wishes for it, because he’s entirely uncertain he has it in him to reject Dean one more time and maybe if Dean doesn’t find out about his magic, they could be together and the shop running well still.

The third is he quite simply needs help with his book-keeping again. It’s not an absurd thought that Castiel should be standing in front of the door for this reason. It would at least in part explain why Dean was so fidgety before asking: He knew that this was a favor he was asking of someone he couldn’t call a friend anymore. A favor, because obviously Castiel would not accept any payment.

But the fourth and most probable reason – and it’s been causing a near constant state of nausea and nerves – is that Castiel has been found out. Most likely because someone blabbed. Most likely Gabriel, the meddling nuisance.

And if that is the case-… Castiel doesn’t have a clue what will happen if that is the case.

* * *

Dean looks pale. His smile is brittle, a dark shadow in the corners of his mouth. He’s waiting at the door and opens it with a simple “Come on in”, echoing the lovingly hand-carved sign that is now turned to ‘Come back later’. He wonders if he will.

Castiel himself is unnaturally still. He never defines himself by motion, but now he feels like stone, every step inside cracking his skin, his bones, his heart.

They come to stand against the counter, about two steps apart, and Castiel goes completely motionless.

Dean is studying him, a faint crease between his beautiful eyes. Green, like a richly leaved tree bringing relief from summer heat, if Castiel were to allow himself that bit of poetry. They never even had a summer together.

It’s painful for Castiel to look at him, but if this is it, it is the least he owes them both.

The silence has gone on for a while now. There is no music.

For once, Dean is so closed off he isn’t emoting a thing and all Castiel can feel is his own heartbeat, reluctantly pumping the heavy sludge of sorrow through his body.

He hasn’t taken off his trench coat, fingers holding on to the insides of the over-long sleeves like a child. 

It must have been a long time spent waiting for the inevitable before Dean opens his mouth, sucks in a small breath, closes it again, and then speaks. 

“Is the reason you come to this place that you help it out with magic?” 

And just like that, it’s over. All those months spent hiding his work, those hours and hours of weaving his magic through every fiber of the coffee shop while Dean smiled at him without a clue, without any obligation.

His grip on the magic here cannot last now. He can almost feel it loosen already, a precedent to the decline, the fading, the nullification that is to follow. He imagines it will feel a little like dying a slow, helpless death, if he comes here again. But Dean has just told him there is no more need to cross the threshold at all. He could have pretended not to know and kept the magic, but he is too good a person for a selfish act like this.

There really is nothing left to say except, “Yes.”

“Is it the only reason you come here?”

An odd follow-up question, but the answer is simple and easily phrased, even by his frozen mouth, even by his lips of stone.

“No.”

Dean’s jaw clenches tight, once, twice.

“Do you do it out of pity?”

“No.” Castiel’s brows draw together. “No, of course not, Dean.”

And Castiel can tell he believes him, because everything stoic about Dean falls away. His shoulders – drawn so tight it almost hurt to look at – slowly relax and his face melts into something soft and sweet and questioning. He looks younger than Castiel has ever seen him.

He still isn’t trying to emote, isn’t doing it on purpose, but he’s no longer holding everything back, no longer trying to be unreadable. Dean was so proud of having done it all on his own, and now, this pride is gone. Wrongfully so, terribly wrongfully, but he accepts it and Castiel can feel him reaching out.

“Then why?”

Dean’s voice wobbles, so soft it’s almost a whisper. He’s feeling something that might be too big for either one of them, so big it might be sorrow and it might be hope, but it’s strong enough to make Castiel almost shudder in its echo.

There is so much he could say. So much he _can_ say, now that it’s too late to protect his secret.

In the end, he lets a slow smile pull his feature up and settles on, “I once read there are only two basic motivating factors.”

Dean steps closer. Their eyes are locked on each other now and Castiel feels so much he no longer has a clue whose emotions they are.

“I’m guessing it’s not fear, huh?” Dean asks softly, and with something like a shy smile. He’s very close now.

Castiel smiles.

“It’s not fear.”

Dean’s hand rises up, stops half an inch short of touching the stubble on Castiel’s cheek.

“Can I-… Can I just-…”

And Castiel turns his cheek just enough that Dean’s hand is cradling it.

“Please.”

There have been many stories told, Castiel thinks, about many different lovers sharing a first kiss. In literature, there is nothing quite like it. The culmination of welling up passion or grief or joy; life breaking through the haze between two people to finally be free, to do as it wishes and as it was always meant to.

First kisses, in literature, are a grand thing indeed. A thing of magic even, more powerful than any curse spoken or evil looming.

Castiel has read about many first kisses, but he has never understood before.

Maybe it’s not a spectacular kiss. It’s not hands fisting in shirts and lips clashing to the point of pain outside in a rainstorm. It’s not a reunion on a battlefield, one last, doomed mercy bestowed before death reaches out its greedy hands. It’s not even the giddiness of two teenagers who’ve been making eyes at each other across the room all day, finally finding a hidden spot away from watchful eyes.

It’s doesn’t hold the temptation of the forbidden, it’s not born of unconquerable lust, it’s not a goodbye.

It’s not a goodbye.

It simply is.

Finally, finally, they kiss.

Lips touching together with something like shy hesitation, like a hello spoken to a weary old friend. A tender gesture of hope and wonder. Then affirmation, a firmer press, choosing each other. Breaths shared, noses brushing, honest stubble rubbing against the mere hint of a five o’clock shadow.

A fluttering of pulse, not nerves, just heartbeats.

Something settling within Castiel, something that sounds small and interminably important and a little bit like ‘oh’.

Pulling Dean closer with a hand on the small of his back as he responds in kind. 

It is a first kiss. It is not a last.

Castiel does not realize they have stopped kissing until Dean is tenderly wiping the tears from his cheeks with his thumbs.  

“You know”, he muses, and the way he looks at Castiel is so infinitely softer than anyone has ever looked at him, “Maybe next time, we’ll skip all the angsty talking and just do this.”

He leans in again. Castiel laughs wetly against his lips. “I love you.”

“Yeah,” Dean presses a small kiss against the corner of his mouth, “I kinda figured.”

* * *

They stand there for a good long time, holding each other close, hands gripping lapels and soothingly stroking shoulders. They’re sharing heartbeats behind layers of clothing, foreheads together, and heartache takes the time it needs to swell, to crest, to break, and finally, to heal.

A large part of Dean still feels himself losing Cas – the truth of it, the best possible outcome still not having sunk in – and he knows Cas has the same issue. Neither can seem to bring themselves to let go or even change the pace of the almost hesitant, tender kisses that are traded like treasures, like gifts. Like concessions and apologies and ‘thank you’s; small, real, _theirs_.

“Hey, Cas?”, Dean eventually says, and it’s barely more than a breath against Cas’ ear. It makes him shiver and Dean shudders along for a delicious moment, especially when Cas moves his own mouth to barely graze Dean’s earlobe and counters with a smiled, “Hm, Dean?”

“Are you ever going to take your coat off?”

“You’re going to have to let go of me for a moment in order for me to do that.”

Yeah, he isn’t going to do that. Especially not when the words sound so very much like an invitation.

“Or I could just help you.”

It’s their most insistent kiss yet, tendrils of heat creeping in, heating their veins, tangling tongues and clashing teeth, a soft bite at a lower lip, a moan in the quiet of the coffee shop.

Dean doesn’t just drag Cas’ coat off. He slides his hands underneath it, a caress against the coarseness of the off-the-rack dress shirt as well as the solid muscles twitching.

He remembers how touch-starved Castiel has been, ever since they first met. How even the slightest brush against him had made him feel this even more strongly, the constant yearning for more.

The yearning now is of the same variety, the same species, but a different beast altogether. Roaring inside Cas, impatient, craving, at war with the other emotion predominant in him right now: full of wonder and disbelief and remnants of loss. It’s heady and slightly dizzying, and Cas breathes hotly against his cheek for a moment as Dean slowly slides his hands from the firm pectorals up to his shoulders, dislodging the trench coat just enough to slide off and tumble to the floor.  

The next kiss seems to last an eternity.

“Hold on a minute, Dean.”

Letting go is a thing of impossibility, even if it is just for a moment. Every inch of him that has touched Castiel is reaching out for him again, a different, more solid form of longing very much reciprocated, even as Dean is rewarded with the image of Castiel reaching down to pick his coat off the floor and then walking over to the door to hang it up. It’s not a bad view at all, those broad shoulders from behind, becoming strong, unbroken spine amidst shifting muscles, a backside Dean can finally look at freely.

It’s so much better than the few fleeting glimpses he’s allowed himself over the months, determined to be a good friend, a professional coffee shop owner, certainly not some creep who checks out his customer’s asses. He wonders how he ever managed to keep his eyes from wandering at all.

“Why didn’t you take it off when you came in?”, Dean distractedly muses as he leans back against the counter. He crosses his arms to trap what is left of Cas’ body warmth.

“I didn’t think I would be staying.”

“Oh, so you are?”

It’s mere cheek, just words to bridge the anticipation making him breathe shallowly, a formality that needs to be obliged.

“Dean.”

A sudden flashback to the second day they knew each other. Dean was lying about not having given Cas his own umbrella, and Cas, returning it, didn’t say any more than his name, in that same fond, slightly exasperated way. Like he knew him.

Nothing has changed, Dean realizes. Absolutely nothing has changed in the crinkle of Cas’ eyes when he looks at Dean.

“Oh,” Dean sighs, sags against the counter. Laughs one small, relieved laugh as Cas tilts his head with that little squint he gets when he doesn’t understand.

And Dean breathes, “You’re staying.”

And the Cas’ confusion melts away, gives way to a breath sucked in, a room crossed in a few determined strides – so few of them, they could have crossed this distance eons ago – and finally, a kiss so desperate Dean knows Cas understands that he was no longer talking about staying the night.

There are hands on his waist, the small of his back, dipping him in an arc that has him half bent backwards over the counter, gripping him tight and safe and Cas might be saying, “I’m not going anywhere, for as long as you’ll have me”, or it may be said in almost painful presses of lips against open lips, the harsh intakes of each other’s ragged breath, but it is said. It is said.

It is _true_.

And Dean answers in kind. With a hand finally cupping the back of Cas’ head, carding fingers through the beautiful mess of dark hair he has dreamt of touching this way, with the tugging on the perpetually halfway undone, flipped backwards tie until he can flick one end over Cas’s shoulder and then pull it off. Holding on to each other, because that’s how it should be, that’s how it always should have been. Tongue brushing firm, bruising lips, touching tongue, there, now, together, stars, _together_. 

Cas lets go off him long enough to both crowd Dean back even further against the counter and for his suit jacket to drop to the floor. Dean’s legs open to accommodate him, to let him in closer, closer. Still kissing, kissing until Dean is grinning so brightly Cas draws back just a little.

“What,” he whispers, the corners of his well-kissed mouth twitching up as well.  

“So, Cas. Any chance you’d like to come up for a cup of coffee?”

To which Cas honest to God deadpans, “I’d like to come up for sex, if you don’t mind. But I’d appreciate coffee in the morning.”

Which has pretty much all the blood laughing has driven back into the rest of his body rushing back down.

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds...” He licks his lips, trails off, swallows dryly, “Yeah.”

They cannot get up the stairs quickly enough and Dean thanks every star he can name and then some that he never keeps his door locked, because they can just step through it and Cas can just pull it shut between them and then Cas can grab his arm and spin him until Dean is pressed up against it completely, sturdy wood at his back, solid and surprisingly muscly male body right against his chest, one thigh between Dean’s and, “Wait”, he breathes through hot kisses, “wait, won’t you need to get up real early? I want-… God, I want… But-… work?”

“Actually, I took tomorrow off.” How, how, how does he still manage to sound so concise when Dean can literally feel him unraveling? “I figured I might need a day to compose myself after this conversation, but it certainly took a turn for the better.”

It is difficult to think, but Dean is doing his best, because they’re doing this, they’re doing this, they’re doing this, Cas has sunk down just a little to suck at Dean’s neck and Dean can’t really think at all, because _they’re doing this_ , but because they’re doing this, this is important information.

“So you won’t have to leave tomorrow? Like, at all?”

“I’m all yours.”

And Dean has pushed him off and is fumbling for his phone so quickly he has pressed call before Cas can even pull him back against his chest. 

“Charlie-…” Open mouthed kisses up the back of his neck while Cas’ hand slides underneath his t-shirt, “Yeah, uhm, I really can’t talk right now, sor-…,” and those are not just hip bones pressing against Dean’s ass, really, really not just hip bones, “Listen, I need you to take over the coffee shop tomorrow. Like, at least the morning shaft, uhm, _shift_.” A hand dipping underneath the waistband of his jeans, unceremoniously cupping his rapidly filling dick, “ _Scratch that, scratch that_ , make it the whole day. I know you got classes, but-…,” and stroking, stroking, still over Dean’s boxers while the other hand unbuttons Dean’s pants and pulls the zip down dexterously, “I’ll pay double. Triple. I’ll give you my Lego replica of the Millenium Falcon if that’s what it takes, just _please_ -…” He stills Cas’ ministrations with his own hand, breath held, both of their breaths held until finally, “Okay, thank you, you’re the best, I won’t forget this, I swear. -…-Will do.”

Dean turns his head just enough to be able to look at Cas, barely able to get out the words in the face of the absolute, devastating storm that are Castiel’s eyes. “Uhm, Charlie says hi.”

Cas takes the phone from Dean’s hand before he can drop it, muscles already falling slack with pleasure as Cas’ other hand pulls Dean out of his boxers. And he sounds so calm, the _fucker_ , as he dryly and without much pause says, “Hello, Charlie. Thank you for taking on Dean’s shift. Now if you don’t mind, there are several rather explicit things I need to do to him right now, so I’m going to hang up the phone.”

He is already stroking Dean again, the calloused skin of those beautiful, beautiful hands Dean has fantasized about so often finally falling on Dean’s overheated, overly sensitive flesh, but Dean can still hear Charlie yell, “Be safe!”, before Cas ends the phone call with a click and the phone is flung onto the sofa. 

“Uh, speaking of, uhm, do you have anything with you?”

Cas pulls back slightly. In surprise, Dean hopes, not because the answer is no.

“What, you don’t keep condoms and lube in your own apartment?” 

He’d be punching the air if he wasn’t a little embarrassed about having to spell it out to Cas.

“No, I do, but I mean-… Condoms your size?”

“Stars, Dean” and there’s a considerable pause in conversation as Cas turns Dean back around, presses him into whatever semi-flat surface is behind them at the moment and kisses him so thoroughly they both feel like they’ll never breathe normally again. “Yes,” he eventually says, forehead resting against Deans, hot breaths panted against his ear, “Yes, I should have one.”

They pull apart long enough for Dean to lead them to the bedroom, nervously babbling all the way.  

“Uhm, this is the living room, obviously. And-… and the kitchen. Through there is the bathroom and here, that’s-…” 

“That’s the bedroom, yes.” Cas is already taking off his trousers. “Dean, I will very gladly take a full tour of your apartment, and I will love it, because it’s a part of you and you are proud of it, but I really do think it can wait until tomorrow. Possibly the day after tomorrow.”

“Yeah”, Dean swallows dryly, eyes somewhat south, and lets himself be pulled upon the bed. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

* * *

Dean is magnificent.

Castiel has to remind himself he has time, they have time, unending measures of time, and that every bit of worship he wants to bestow upon this body does not have to be given at this exact moment. He wishes to devote more than fleeting seconds to the soft skin on the insides of Dean’s wrists, the way Dean’s pulse flutters against his fingertips, tongue, lips, both there and on his neck, just beneath his jaw. He does have to pull himself back with some undefined inner strength when he can’t resist turning the trail of kisses into a continuous line of hickeys and Dean’s moans at the ministrations threaten to push them both towards a premature end.

They have time, because this is a beginning.

“Cas”, Dean says, “Cas, Cas, Cas”, his name over and over again as Castiel kisses his way down Dean’s body, twitching and arching beneath him like the most responsive instrument anyone has ever had the honor of playing. A purple bruise sucked to the inside of his right thigh has him strung so tight and the whisper of his name becomes such a long, drawn out whimper, that Castiel temporarily has to abandon his mission and swallow the noises tumbling from Dean’s mouth.

Considering the average of his age, Castiel has limited sexual experience. Not little enough to precisely remember each and every encounter, but enough to know what he’s usually like when his partner arouses him.

This is unlike anything he has ever experienced. The sheer need coming off Dean – amplified by having absolutely no wall in the way of his emoting and being particularly tuned in to Castiel – as well as the many months of mutual wishes to act upon their attraction and the self-denial Castiel afflicted upon himself, seem to have unleashed something almost alarmingly strong in him.

He thought he understood attraction before, but whatever sexual experiences he might have had in the past, they come nowhere near to how Dean brings out an almost purely instinctual, even animalistic passion.

No one has ever kissed him like Dean has, not in sweet grieving tenderness, not in the heat of carnal lust, and he is fairly certain he himself has never kissed anyone like he is kissing Dean either. Brushes of lips against each other have long since become hot, open mouthed touches of tongues, lips pressed so tightly together they hurt. When he can make himself pull back, their breaths are ragged, and Dean’s lips are red and swollen in a way that has Castiel lean in again to gently nip at the bottom lip.

“Fuck, Cas, you’re killing me,” Dean chokes out when at last, Castiel merely looms over him, both hands firmly on Dean’s sweat-slick torso. 

During the course of this particular make-out-session, it would appear he has seated himself on Dean’s lap, knees on either side of Dean’s hips and now that he focuses on this, on the way he is still slowly grinding his ass against Dean’s swollen cock, it seems almost inevitable that he says – sounding astoundingly casual, even though his voice is rather deeper than usual, “Someday, I’m going to ride you just like this.” And Dean just responds with a choked out laugh and drags an arm over his face.

“No”, Castiel says with a frown and drags one palm up Dean’s chest, lightly catching on Dean’s nipple, which has Dean shuddering underneath him, his cock jerking against the cleft of Cas’ ass. Up, up, up, he draws his hand, over the well-defined muscles of Dean’s arm until he can fit his fingers between Dean’s and slowly pull Dean’s arm back to expose his closed eyes again. “No, none of that, let me see you.”

Dean laughs again, and his eyes are shiny and dark when he opens them. Castiel can tell he’s trying to reign in the strength of his emoting.

“I’m not hiding, I’m trying not to come all over you.”

And Castiel’s eyebrow flies up, his grip on Dean’s hand momentarily tightens. Dean whimpers.

“Hm, this is something you’ve thought about. Me, riding you to ecstasy.”

He shifts slightly on top of Dean, and Dean bites out a few choice curse-words until finally ending in an almost irritated sounding, “Uhm, yeah I’ve thought about that,” which trails off into another helpless moan as Castiel once more slowly grinds down, adding a circular motion to his hips.

“Yes, someday”, he muses, and only the promise of something else allows him to keep from getting swept up in this particular fantasy. “But not today.”

Within seconds, he has switched their positions to be kneeling between Dean’s spread knees instead. He breathes in deeply at the first brush of his cock to where Dean is suddenly open and vulnerable, “Like this today, I think.” And rolls his hips forward.

He honestly has no idea where he finds these amounts of both self-control and apparent sexual proficiency within himself. Dean’s pleasure rushes as keenly through him as his own, and it should be enough to make his hips stutter. His dick is weeping pre-come against the cleft of Dean’s ass and Dean has resumed his chant of ‘Cas, Cas, Cas’. Yet he merely grips Dean’s hips tighter and pulls them closer together, his eyes greedily taking in the way Dean is biting his swollen lips, the flush spreading out from his torso that brings hundreds of freckles to new and brilliant visibility, the softer abdomen he wants to bite, Dean’s own cock, which he can barely resist wrapping a hand around again. 

He stills.

“Dean”, he hears himself say, can hear his voice turn halting and quiet and small, “I can’t believe I get to have this.”

For a moment, they’re both just breathing, eyes locked.

* * *

To say that this day has been an emotional up and down would be an understatement. Dean is fairly certain it has by now broken left and right, a few diagonals as well, and then the two-dimensional coordinate system as a whole, until it feels more like all human emotion could be rearranged into a ball or globe or whatever, and just today, Dean has been on so many points within this ball or globe it’s making his head spin to think of all the places he’s been in such a short span of time.

He’s imagined being in bed with Cas often and extensively, but the seemingly effortless way Cas has gone about taking Dean apart while oh-so-casually dominating the ever-loving crap out of him is by far exceeding any expectation. He’s barely managed to keep up with it, so helplessly swept along by what Castiel was doing, that this latest shift in tone hardly even surprises him anymore. Maybe it’s even closer to what he’s been feeling, what he’s capable of feeling anymore at this exact time, because instead of letting it render him mute and unable to ground Cas, he just says, “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

He caresses the strong, solid muscles of Cas’ lower arm, because that’s what feels natural right now, that’s what he’s supposed to do, eyes following the path of his own fingers. He brushes a kiss against the inner skin of Cas’ wrist, and says, “But we do. We get to have this now.” And because Cas still looks dazed and close to crying, he adds, “But we don’t have to tonight, if you think we’re moving too fast.” And even that unthinkable thought feels okay, somehow. Because this is a beginning.

The corners of Cas’ mouth twitch and Dean can feel him relax. “We might not be setting a new record for slow burn, but I think we’ve really waited long enough.”

Dean laughs and leans up to kiss him, using the momentum to semi-elegantly rolling them over until Dean is on top of Cas. Which also feels, uhm, _very nice_. On hand keeps him suspended above Cas, but the other is opening his drawer, blindly groping in there until he locates the lube. He’s thanking his lucky stars and then some that he actually likes doing this to himself and keeps a steady supply nearby.

Still kissing Cas, he skillfully manages to open the cap and squeeze a fair amount onto his fingers. He doesn’t waste a lot of time teasing himself either – it hasn’t been that long and there are things he’d rather be doing right now than prep – he just slowly begins with one finger.

Cas sucks in a breath and, still slowly sliding deeper, Dean asks, “I know I’m probably emoting, but you can’t actually feel this, can you?” Which is a shame, because it’s starting to feel almost as good as sitting with his thighs bracketing Cas hips, thick cock right underneath his own.

“I can feel what it’s doing to you.”

In answer to this, Dean adds a second finger and Cas’ eyes flutter shut for a moment, before snapping back open at the same time as his hand stops Dean’s. “I want to do this to you,” he says and just like that, the dom eyebrow and dark, steady voice are back.

Dean pulls out with a small, aroused chuckle. “Yeah, okay.”

He isn’t entirely sure when Cas even coats his fingers, because they’re pushing in and _that_ sensation is really quite different from doing it himself. For starters, it has his head rolling back. For seconds, it has his back arching, which leads to the pad of Cas’ finger nudging his prostate, which leads to both of them groaning out loud.

Lightning fast and without even pulling out, Cas has turned them around again and Dean’s knees pressed apart. His fingers begin moving, a slow, steady glide in and out, lightly stretching him. He looks somewhere between completely focused and absolutely ravaged, hair a worse mess than Dean has ever seen it, chest rising and falling with breaths carefully pulled in through the nose.

Suddenly, desperately, Dean feels compelled to grind out, “So, uhm, Cas, this might be over kind of quickly the first time. Just thought I’d – _Jesus fucking Christ_ – warn you.”

And Cas just adds one more finger, slides in and spreads and rubs and then crooks them slightly. Dean whites out for a moment, but Cas somehow manages to point out, “My last relationship ended when I left St. Cloud, Dean, and since then, I haven’t felt any particular desire for sex until I met you. It’s safe to assume I won’t last a very long time either.”

Dean’s thighs are shaking, and his hands are tight fists around his bedsheets. He’s so far beyond articulation, but this is important, damnit.

“Condom?”

* * *

Cas lets out a string of very creative and possibly literary inspired curses in several languages and a voice so deep and guttural and wrecked that it has Dean clenching on his fingers. Then he says, “Stay right here. Exactly where you are.”

He pulls his fingers out carefully, climbs off the bed, climbs back on the bed to very quickly give Dean’s dick a parting swirl of tongue, and has clambered back off the bed and disappeared out the door before Dean can even process the pleasure.

Dean’s head falls back as he feels himself, open and ready, dick weeping pre-come. Ready, so ready to finally have this, have this with Cas, have Cas inside him.

And he knows he is attractive, because he has been told this very many times in his life and because he has a mirror and because that’s what the beauty standard is (even if his face is on the more feminine side), but never has he felt half as sexy as he does when Cas comes back in, wallet in hand, stopping in the doorway just to look – and yes, Dean stayed exactly where he was – licking his lips once, twice, looking, just looking with burning eyes, before finally bounding back on the bed to cover Dean’s body with his own.

“You are everything, Dean,” he groans against Dean’s jawline when they finally come up for air again, “everything good about this world.”

He has pulled back before Dean can even recover from that kiss enough to reply in any way. A quick fumble with his wallet later, he is rolling the condom down his dick and then applying a quick layer of lube, eyes on Dean, still on Dean as if he’s the single most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Hands find Dean’s, finally, as their eyes stay on each other, unwavering even though Dean knows it will take a good long while for him to get used enough to having Cas naked and flushed and gorgeous in front of him to no longer feel the need to look at his body.

They’re not connected yet, Cas kneeling before Dean on the mattress, just their fingers intertwining. Dean guides Cas’ hands to his hips and Cas shifts close enough that Dean can feel him, hot and hard and condom slick with lube against where he is open and waiting. 

“Fuck, Cas, I need you in me _now_.”

And Cas pulls him forward at the same time as he pushes in and _holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck_ he is inside Dean, so full, parting him like a prophet might the sea, like a comet might make its slow way across the sky.

As a moan that sounds barely human is ripped from Dean’s throat – or maybe it is everything that is humanity packed into one small note – Cas falls forward, mouth pulled soundlessly open, completely inside now, _so deep_ , and his forehead falls next to Dean’s ear onto the mattress. Dean can feel him tremble, a breath almost like a sob against his neck.

And Dean can’t speak, cannot communicate with words, has never learned how to, not like this, not when he’s like this, but he can use his body to at least try.

He wraps himself around Cas, arms holding him close, legs pressing him in tight, locking him in, and it feels spectacular, so, so spectacular, but just for a little bit, this is not about that, it’s not about pleasure at all. He strokes Cas’ hair, presses a kiss against his forehead.

And then Cas is looking up at him, with wet, almost pained eyes. 

“Dean…”

And suddenly, there are words. Not the right ones, maybe. Not what he should be saying, not what he feels with every second they spend together. Not the kind of words that speak of love and them and forever. But there are words.

“I’m here, Cas. I’m right here with you.”

And maybe, just maybe, they do speak of those things, because then Cas is moving, and Dean’s eyes are rolling back, body curling backwards and back pulling taunt as Cas’ cock drags right against his prostate.

Groans tumble together as a slow shift becomes another, and another, bodies still so close Dean can feel the frantic heartbeat against his own. Until just sliding together long and hard is no longer enough and Cas puts more weight on his elbows and snaps his hips and everything goes white.

* * *

There are no words to describe this moment, nor the ones that follow. Letters pushed together to form words and lines and paragraphs can never convey the ecstasy Castiel feels. The wonder. The sheer awe. The rush of power and sweet helplessness of his own experience paired with every hot and desperate thing Dean is feeling.

He is keening into Dean’s neck, into corded muscles and sinews and a merciless pulse, unsure anymore if he’s kissing Dean there or biting him or just trying to breathe. All he knows his Dean is tilting his head back to let him, because it’s just one more sensation that has him close to coming already. Cas is pushing into him so hard the muscles of his thighs are shaking as hard as Dean’s are.

The noises Dean is making, those soft, aching sounds, he could write a symphony about, maybe. He has lost all control over what he’s saying, what he’s doing, he just knows he’s chasing bliss, needing to keep going, needing it to last forever, but rapidly approaching the edge.

In a moment of lucidity, he reaches between them to wrap his hand around Dean, and as Dean does the same at almost the exact same moment, their fingers join, caress heated flesh, wrap firmly around it and begin to pull as harmoniously and disjointedly as their hips meeting.

He looks up, now, up at Dean, so close to him, jaw slack in ecstasy, eyes half closed, freckles drowned out by the haze of fevered passion.

He can’t go much further: his muscles are giving out; his body consists only of white heat no longer waiting to consume everything he is. It will consume Dean as well, maybe melt both of them, until neither more fire nor iron nor ice could ever separate them again.

The last few desperate snaps of his hips are set to harsh breaths shared in the small space between their mouths. To eyes not able to focus on anything, but set on each other. To Dean’s hand slipping down Cas’ back to hold onto his ass, to drive him closer.

There are no words for it and there are none spoken when they come. They just rise together, fly together, crash together.

And then they safely hold each other while they float back down. They kiss as they slowly land with a few single, exhausted rolls of their hips together, and it is sweet and simple and so tender Castiel’s oversensitive body can hardly bear it.

Castiel is shivering as he pulls out and away from the warmth of Dean’s body long enough to get rid of the condom and Dean helps him, movements steady, if tired. He wipes his come off both of their stomachs with his t-shirt and Castiel vaguely hopes the stain will come out, because he likes this t-shirt on Dean and after today, he will like it even more.

Castiel lies back down half on top of Dean, wrapping his arms around him and laying his head on Dean’s chest. Dean pulls the cover over both them.

“I know I was promising you all night,” Dean says against the top of his head, a soothing whisper that makes Castiel hold him even tighter to keep from shaking too much. Dean is playing with the sweat-slick hair on the nape of Castiel’s neck. “But I think we could both do with a bit of sleep right now, hm?”

Castiel can’t really do much more than slightly turn his head to kiss Dean’s collarbone.

“We’ve got all of tomorrow,” he hears Dean whisper as he drifts off to sleep. “Hell, Cas, we’ve got all of forever.”

* * *

The morning rises crisp and clear, the way spring mornings do before giving way to joyful awakening, green songs and the celebration, the triumph of life.

There are birds chirping outside Dean’s window like they’re in a god-damn Disney movie and he has his legs tangled with the hottest guy he’s ever met.

Cas is still asleep, morning sun casting his face half in dramatic shadow, half in the softest white light. His bare chest is rising and falling slowly under Dean’s arm and if he didn’t need to pee, not even all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could take Dean away from exactly where he is lying nestled up against him.

Cas barely even stirs as he carefully gets up, but by the time he is standing next to the bed, Cas has rolled onto his side, face burrowing into the space Dean previously occupied.

In the bathroom as Dean is washing his hands, he finds his reflection smiling so brightly it feels like a different face. He decides while he’s at it, he might as well brush his teeth, and afterwards leaves a spare tooth brush on the counter. A shower gets briefly deliberated, but since he won’t have to do it alone today, why waste good water pressure on just him? As a farewell, he winks and finger-guns at his reflection, which beams back at him.

Back in the bedroom, Cas is still lying the way he left him. Judging by the angle of the sun, which is only barely creeping into the window, it’s still early enough that the coffee shop should be empty. There will be a time when he’ll casually stroll down the stairs into a shop full of customers and Cas will follow, but today, he really doesn’t want to deal with anyone but Cas, so this early wake-up suits him fine.

Just Cas today and Cas and more Cas. Because this is what he gets to do now.

This is what he gets to have.

On an impulse, he bends down and leaves a kiss in Cas’s mess of dark hair before pulling on boxers and a t-shirt and going downstairs. 

**Noveltea & Coffee** is not empty. The chairs are upside down on the tables; everything non-essential is put away or covered by towels; the counter, shelves and floor are as squeaky clean as Dean left them before Cas arrived. There’s Cas’ trench coat and suit jacket on the coat rack, his tie on the counter.

There is no one here but him, but for now, it is not empty at all, because every bit of it is still filled with Castiel’s magic. A soft glow of contentment. An ease. It’s hard to miss, now that he knows why it’s there.

Turning on some of the lights and then starting up the coffee maker, Dean wonders if it will go back to the way it felt before Cas wandered in, the way it felt at the end of December, when he wasn’t there to renew his magic.

He hears steps on the stairs behind him, the slightly disoriented tread of a six-foot man still half asleep.

Then there are hands on his hips, rucking up his t-shirt until they are wrapped around his stomach. Cas doesn’t press his body against him, but is leaning with his chin draping over Dean’s shoulder, ears bumping together, stubble rasping against stubble.

“Morning, Cas”, he says, and Cas gives his mid-rift a soft squeeze in return while making a low, contented sound.

No.

It won’t be the same at all.

This time, he will be happy.

Dean smiles and prepares their coffee.      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:  
> \- Hallelujah, the UST resolves itself!!!  
> \- No, really, they're FINALLY GETTING IT ON!  
> \- (They're still sad though sometimes...)  
> \- Inappropriate things happening while on the phone with other people  
> \- Hand job  
> \- Anal fingering  
> \- Bottom!Dean, but mentions of switching  
> \- Light dom/sub undertones  
> \- Probably unrealistic stamina  
> \- Anal sex like whoa  
> \- Post orgasmic bliss  
> \- Oh yeah, and unrealistic depiction of first kisses


	12. Epilogue

Dean is a bit of a mess. He hasn’t slept much at all last night and it’s beginning to show. Part of it is, of course, due to having an extremely attractive partner who likes to keep him up all night almost as much as Dean likes to return the favor. Then there’s the reason Cas was particularly thorough in taking him apart last night: Sam’s imminent arrival.

They’ve been fairly good about not letting the waning of Castiel’s magic affect the coffee shop too negatively. It was one of the first conversations they had that didn’t consist of names moaned and hopes whispered: sitting together to discuss how they could accomplish some of the same feats Castiel had previously provided.

Because neither of them is particularly good at interior decorating, Castiel begrudgingly called in Gabriel, which went about as well as they’d assumed.

Dean on several occasions almost punched the guy, who seemed to give himself sole credit for them getting together. And Castiel wasn’t that far away from it either. After a particularly lewd allusion to “how well-fucked their energies looked”, Castiel finally broke his immeasurable calm – probably fueled by Dean’s rage as well – and slammed his brother up against the counter.

“Yes, we are dating now, me and Dean. And yes, it’s the best thing that ever happened to me. But I swear, Gabriel, one more comment and I am never talking to you again. Yes, I am happy, but look at this place! There is a reason I never said anything, and you took that choice away from me. So you are going to shut up, drape the damn curtains and when you leave tonight, you are going to be very glad I’ll still consider you my brother.” 

And after this, Gabriel seemed to understand the severity of the situation enough to not even remark on the fact that Dean looked more than a little turned on by the sheer demonstration of power. Even though it looked like it cost him _dearly_ to keep his mouth shut, which only served him right.

(They did draw the curtains shut after Gabriel was finally gone and commit several very enjoyable health code violations. Because damn, Dean likes getting pushed around a bit. And damn, Cas is surprisingly strong for a nerdy little dude in a trench coat. And damn, his voice sounds good when he’s pissed off. And damn, Dean gets to have this now, _he gets to have this_.)

All in all, it isn’t the same as before, but they did manage to at least for the most part recreate the atmosphere that made **Noveltea & Coffee** popular.

The curtains are mostly there to mute some of the noise, but with Gabriel’s sharp eye, they now also provide a cozy backdrop for the orange fairy lights and the somewhat cheesy reading lamps on the table, which now make up most of the lighting.

Thankfully, the coffee was great even before Castiel came along and Dean has gotten quite good at making it, so although human error can now lead to burning and spilling, it is still more than enjoyable.

The reading experience has gone back to normal, but they do have a growing collection of excellent literature. “Time to let novels work their own magic”, Dean said from where they sat on the floor, with Cas’ broad shoulders against the counter and Dean leaning against him and he could feel Cas’ smile when he kissed the back of Dean’s neck.

Castiel has a heap of napkins collected and in the last few weeks, they were all the declarations of love Dean cannot bring himself to say.

And this is the best part. Because half the atmosphere was always made of what Dean was emoting and now, even without any magical aid whatsoever, most of the time, he emotes only the best of things. (Even though there is the occasional bit of horniness thrown in.)

And people keep coming. The regulars anyway and so do a steady if not overwhelming stream of passers-by, thanks to some cleverly installed lighting and a new sign – still hand-carved – additionally placed onto the sidewalk next to the entrance.

Things are great.

Except for right now, because Sam is due to arrive in a day and Dean very selfishly wishes his brother could have seen his coffee shop back when it was at its best.

* * *

Feeling helpless is – unfortunately – an emotion Castiel is very much used to, and it usually has to do with being unable to help others.

He hasn’t told Dean that the slow and eventually complete fading of his magic from the coffee shop has been one of the most difficult things he has experienced since he couldn’t find a way to help his sister out of addiction. Though he’s pretty sure Dean knows anyway, if all the cuddling Dean is supposedly against as well as a small amount of guilt he has been emoting is any indication.

He’s tried not to focus on it, not when so many other things have been going so right for the first time in his life. Because he is happy. Truly, unequivocally happy. So happy he sometimes keeps himself awake at night, just to look at the miracle who fell asleep in his arms. Just to watch over him. To smooth the nightmares from his brow and hold him tight until he is safe and whole. The sight of Dean Winchester’s untroubled face in the moonlight is not one he is likely to ever take for granted.

With a little help from Castiel’s infernal brother, Noveltea & Coffee is still running well. And yet, sometimes, there are the hard days. When he can tell Chuck has been staring at the screen of his laptop unable to write until Castiel is here in person to give him a boost. When Kevin pushes his papers together with more force than usual, because he hasn’t been able to focus on studying as well as he is used to. When people look at their watches between pages of fantastic worlds.

The other day, someone actually yelled at Charlie and he had been powerless to stop it.

And today, Dean is a mess and Castiel can do little more than occasionally distract him with sex. Which is enjoyable enough a distraction, but ultimately doesn’t stop Dean from fidgeting with things, looking miserable when he thinks Cas isn’t looking and spending too much of his energy on trying to keep a wall between his customers and his emotions.

By all means, Castiel should feel nervous himself. He has met most of the people Dean considers family – hell, most of the time, they’re hanging out here – but Sam is without a doubt the single most important part of Dean’s life and apart from a video chat Charlie set up, where Dean dragged him into the screen to exchange a few awkward hellos, he has not yet met Sam. Dean is certain they will get along – “Put together, you’ll out-nerd even Charlie” – but in his past, Castiel has rarely fared well on first impressions.

Yet all he sees is Dean and the inadequacies the negative imprint of Castiel’s magic has left behind.

“Dude, just try it”, Claire says suddenly from across the table. She’s rolling her eyes and his mood darkens further when he notices she has closed the pages of Leigh Bardugo’s **_Six of Crows_**. He tentatively recommended it to her the other day – this is a thing he’s trying out now, recommending books – and to see her reading it had filled him with a small, private joy. It’s such a narratively strong novel she should stay immersed in it even without magical help.

But apparently, he’s a distraction, because here she is, looking at him pointedly.

“Try what?”, he says, for a moment distracted by Dean fiddling with a string of fairy lights.

“Dean’s brother isn’t supposed to get here until tomorrow, right? So there’s still plenty of time to work your magic.”

He finally looks at her, eyes narrowing. It’s sweet of her, not uncharacteristically, but not a trait she’d admit to having. He often wonders who she’d be if her father was still alive. Softer, maybe. Not in quite as much pain. Probably just as reluctant to let herself be nice to people.

“I wish that I could, Claire, but that’s not how it works.”

She scoffs, rolls her eyes, and puts her book down. She’s always so careful with them. He’s fairly certain she doesn’t do it on purpose, but her hands turn gentler whenever they’re in the proximity of pages that can be crumpled and soiled so easily.

“Why, ‘cause you’re not miserable?”, she asks him, eyebrow raised in provocation.

He wonders why they are having this conversation, even though he appreciates that she cares enough to get involved. Claire has always understood his situation.

“Because I benefit from it now,” he explains simply.

“Yeah, of course you do.” She looks at him like he’s an idiot and he’s once more reminded of how very fond of her he is. “That’s not new. You heard Dean, there’s no such thing as a completely selfless act. You’re always going to feel better after you’ve helped a bunch of people.”

“It’s not quite that easy.”

“Duh, yes, it is.” She looks like she’s trying not to smile. “So you’re getting laid now. You still won’t be doing it because having a happy boyfriend means the sex is better, you’ll be doing it because he’ll be happy.”

Castiel just sits back and blinks, so she changes gears. 

“Okay, forget about Dean. He’s not even the only reason you’ve pushed so much magic into this place, it’s all the rest of us, too. Don’t really see what you could possible get out of making our lives better.”

She looks away suddenly, obviously uncomfortable. Picks up her book and tries to pretend she’s reading again, but he hears her last words on the subject loud and clear, mumbled though they may be.

“People like you for who you are, not for your magic. That’s just something nice to give them back.”

He doesn’t wonder at her wisdom, or her kindness, though he can tell it’s costing her.

He does wonder if she’s right.

“Do you have a favorite character?”, he asks, referring to the book.

“Pff, they’re all great.” She’s pressing her lips together and gives him a challenging look, the last remnants of her embarrassment bravely driven out of her face. Castiel is not going to refute her statement, since he felt the same way while reading.

But after a while spent in silence, Claire finally immersed in the story again, and Castiel trying to calm the hope beating against his veins, he hears her mumble, “Kaz.” And smiles.  

* * *

Considering the day ahead of him, Dean slept well. Like, really. So well that when he remembers what he said when Cas came back under the convers last night, he doesn’t even freak out. Just blinks blearily against the approaching morning sun and then presses a sleepy kiss into Cas’ hair.

Uncharacteristically, Cas stirs. His muscles lack the tension of a day in the office, but they’re certainly pretty. There’s a crease on his cheek where it had been buried into the pillow and it takes him a while to get his eyes to open. Dean just watches him. He doesn’t even try to keep the fondness from seeping out and it warms the air between them more than the first rays of a sun rapidly gaining strength.

Cas is nervous about something, or possibly excited. It’s a good type of butterflies in any case and Dean can’t help ruffling his hair with a wink and a grin. Cas ducks away, then rolls them over until he’s lying on top of Dean in a quick move even more limber than yesterday. His hands fixate Deans’, pressed into the pillow and mattress somewhere next to his head, but the mood is significantly more playful than sexy.

“You’re in a good mood today,” Dean idly comments, feeling the corners of his mouth pull up.

“It’s a good day. Your brother is arriving, if you remember.”

Dean groans, definitely not in a sexy way. “Dude, don’t talk about my brother while you’re on top of me.”

Cas tilts his head and half squints his eyes, the way he usually does when he’s pondering something. “Hm, you’re right.” Dean can tell it’s pretend and is about to call him out on his bullshit, when Cas suddenly lets go off him and as good as bounces off the mattress. “We should go downstairs!”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Dean yells after him, reaching for a quickly receding thigh.

“Come on, Dean! I feel like coffee.”

“You always feel like coffee,” he grumbles, but mostly, he enjoys the sight of Cas’ naked butt walking to the bathroom.

Cas left last night, he suddenly remembers. He tired Dean out quite enthusiastically (if with a bit of a nervous, desperate edge), and when Dean was just about to fall asleep, he murmured “Be right back” and left the bedroom. And then Dean slept for a bit, but Cas wasn’t right back, because the clock read seven past three when he slipped back under the covers and kissed Dean awake.

Dean remembers the pure happiness he tasted, even half-conscious as he was. The look of Cas’ hair in the moonlight, the glint of his crazy blue eyes, like little stars in the semi-darkness of the room.

And he remembers saying “Yeah, yeah, love you, too, dumbass,” before falling asleep with his face half pressed to Castiel’s chest.

Which he hasn’t actually said before. Like, ever.   

“Huh,” he says now and falls back on the bed. “That wasn’t so hard.”

* * *   

It takes some convincing to get Dean to momentarily abandon his (usually successful and always thoroughly distracting) attempts at seducing Castiel. He’s still grumbling good-naturedly when Castiel has finally dragged him downstairs. It’s fairly obvious he’s in a good mood though, despite whatever reservations he might have in the face of reconnecting with his long-estranged brother. 

Castiel’s own rather exuberant joy might be a contributing factor.

It takes Dean a moment to notice – as a matter of fact he’s turned on the lights and coffee maker before he even looks away from Castiel at all – but when he does, he freezes in an almost comical manner.

“Did you-…?”

And Castiel can feel the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I did.”

Dean wanders around with his mouth open and Castiel is more than content to watch him rediscover the magic they’d believed to be lost.

He looks like a child in awe of the first snowflakes. His wonderful fingers trail over the surface of a table, smooth along one of his shelves. For a long time, he just looks at the fairy lights and how much warmer even they appear now. He gets lost in the first pages of a random book he’s pulled off a random shelf – **_Stoner_** by John Williams – as Castiel operates the coffee maker. He only looks up when Castiel proudly presents a cup for Dean – the aroma even more intoxicating than usual, warm and full and guaranteed to improve your day. 

“You’re not breaking up with me, are you?” Dean says after taking a sip, dazed disbelief still coloring his voice. Then he shakes himself out of it and it’s very telling how secure he has become about their relationship that his line of reasoning is mostly joking. “Because other than the fact that I don’t want that to happen, like, ever, this would be the absolute worst timing.”

“No”, Castiel hums and kisses the coffee flavor off Dean’s lips, just one small, reaffirming press of lips. “No, ending our relationship won’t be necessary. And it would be quite a foolish move on my part.”

“But how did you-…?”

Castiel returns behind the counter and places a second cup underneath the coffee maker. For a moment, he wonders if making himself a cup of this excellent coffee might pose a danger to the peace he’s established, if it might be one step too far. But then he presses the button.

“Happiness does not have to come at the cost of other people’s happiness.” He looks up, probably as much love in his gaze as he’s poured into the coffee shop last night. “I want to make you happy, Dean. Not to selfishly gain anything out of it, simply because you deserve it.”

It’s as much repetition of what Claire told him, as it is the realization that she was right, about all of it.

“Everyone who comes here deserves it. It would be much more selfish of me to keep depriving them of it. And you did want to show your brother this place at its best, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Dean says almost distractedly, “Yeah. You know, I did mean it.” He starts rubbing the back of his neck and suddenly can’t look at Castiel directly anymore. “That thing I said yesterday.”

Castiel remembers.  

“And it’s not, uhm, recent. It’s kind of been true since you first walked in. Out of the rain and into my coffee shop…,” he trails off. His face is a little redder than usual, but there is a lot to be said for someone as gorgeous as Dean with a full blush.

Why he would still be embarrassed by this is beyond Castiel. It’s not new information for either one of them. And Castiel has done nothing but assure Dean it is very much a reciprocated sentiment. But he understands the significance, understood it last night as well, when Dean fell asleep drooling onto Castiel’s t-shirt after saying words he hasn’t touched since his mother died.

“I know, Dean.”

When they kiss, it’s still not heated. It isn’t the time or place for heat. Right now, right here is the time and place for warmth and reassurance, for gratitude without obligation. For happiness.

When Dean pulls back, he clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck and plops down in a chair at Castiel’s regular table.

“Come on, let’s finish that coffee and then pick up my brother at the airport.”  

Castiel sits down opposite him and their knees brush under the table.

Over his cup, he looks at Dean, who’s grinning into his cup.

And he’s not clairvoyant, not even a little bit. It’s never been his power, otherwise he might have allowed himself this much earlier. But right now, he sees a future.

He sees Dean, flipping pancakes and frying bacon while Castiel is still slumped over the table, mostly asleep. Movies only half watched; half spent distracted with lazy hand jobs. Books acquired and shared and discussed. Holidays celebrated together, maybe a visit to Anna in Boston, maybe a visit to Sam in California. Sometimes just the two of them. A routine developing, with all the good and bad that comes with it.

He sees the fights ahead of them, the resentments and the growing dislike for bad habits. He sees nights spent on the sofa and raw mornings tainted by residual anger. Days of not speaking to each other. How difficult it will be to keep this from affecting **Noveltea & Coffee**.

He sees them, choosing each other, even when it’s hard.

He sees a future, brighter and happier and significantly more real than any he could have found in a book.

They finish their coffee and step into the sunlight together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:  
> \- Fluff for the sake of fluff  
> \- Mentions of sex, because hell yeah


	13. Bonus: Two Years Later

Even after more than a year and a half of living together, Dean still has a hard time dealing with the fact that Cas just isn’t a morning person. At all. He doesn’t care if the shutters are open or closed – something to be thankful for, because Dean can _not_ sleep when it’s all dark – but no amount of summer sun burning his skin does anything to wake him. And in winter, he just burrows under the covers he likes to steal like the world’s most annoying burrito.

He also sleeps determinedly through any and all noise coming from outside their window, as well as Dean’s alarms. And while most of the time, Dean finds it unfairly adorable how utterly grumpy Cas is until he’s been awake at least two hours, it usually means morning sex is off the table.

Usually.

Today, when Dean skips down the stairs to open up their coffee shop, he isn’t just smiling for no god damn reason (other than he has a pretty damn good life) like any other day; he is actually whistling. Getting woken with a morning blowjob followed by being slowly ridden to mutual orgasm will do that to you.

(“What was that for?” he grins against Cas’ neck after he has collapsed on top of him.

Cas’ voice is as wrecked as ever this early in the morning, but he does bother to mumble, “You love mornings and I love you.”

“I love mornings, because I get to wake up to your grumpy uncommunicative face, you sap,” Dean says and kisses Cas’ shoulder, before blowing a well-placed raspberry on the same spot. Cas rolls away from him with a huff, eyes already closed again, but he is smiling.)

He’ll probably have to turn down his good mood a little; his emoting has gotten so strong when unchecked that he has on several occasions made his customers swoon. But seeing Cas come down the stairs, all five-o’clock-shadow and wearing one of Dean’s band shirts will do that to you. Also, the customary press of sleepy lips against his cheek. Also, the grateful bliss on Cas’ face when he holds his first coffee of the day (still black, with one cube of sugar).

While Dean makes sure the rest of his regulars and the occasional enthusiastic first-timer are also supplied with their favored coffee blends or teas, Cas sips his coffee in his usual place. His eyes are closed and one hand rests on the table, but Dean knows this early in the morning, Cas doesn’t bother with magic yet. He just enjoys slowly waking up to the place he and Dean built together.

When he’s done with his first cup, he kisses Dean again, properly this time – though (out of respect for their regulars) still within the realms of propriety – and vanishes back upstairs to get started on the rest of his day.

Three days of the week, this means going to the local library. There hadn’t been a job opening per se, but to Dean’s immense gratification, being a good guy pays off sometimes. Kevin – now about to start college – and his internship at the mayor’s office had something to do with it. Victor and Jody, he suspects, also served as very determined advocates and character witnesses before a job interview was even on the table.

And – this is the part he doesn’t like quite as much – that nurse from hell Meg probably contributed, too.

Meg started showing up a few months after Dean and Cas officially started dating, and like some kind of diabolic flea, they haven’t managed to shake her yet. Not that Cas is trying very hard. Or at all. As a matter of fact, Dean is pretty sure he is still completely clueless Meg is flirting with him. Laying it on real thick, too. And Cas, ever the nicest fucker in the history of unwanted attention, indulges her in the most confusedly polite way possible. (He even admonishes Dean when he snarls or hisses at that demon woman. And then later, he makes Dean forget all about her in the most delicious of ways. So Meg has her uses.)

Somehow – Dean does not want to know how that happened – she is one of the best-connected people in the city. And if her super inappropriate thing for Dean’s boyfriend means Cas has the opportunity to read fairy tales to little wide-eyed kids and geek out over shelving again, who is Dean to complain (overly much).  

And it’s not like Cas doesn’t deserve it, even objectively speaking. Even before Frank took him on at the library, Cas started doing good for the city’s literary appreciation and that hasn’t stopped since. With the help of their loyal customers from law-enforcement, he got word out that once a week, **Noveltea & Coffee** would close their regular business down earlier and he – a trained professional – was offering a free adult literacy course.

Which, as such things tend to happen when Cas is determined to do unselfish good, is still a beacon of hope a growing amount of people are flocking to. His first group still meets for slow but progressing reading circles afterwards every Thursday and the pride Castiel has for each and every one of them is probably only surpassed by Dean’s pride in Cas.

The only accounting he does anymore is for their coffee shop. “And that is, as ever, a labor of love.”

As are the hours of magic he still pours into **Noveltea & Coffee**. He’s still refusing to get paid for his contributions out of fear this might be too much benefit from actions meant to be unselfish, but it’s more of a formality than anything, since they started living together and mostly merged finances. And everyone knows it has long ago stopped being only Dean’s coffee shop.

They sometimes discuss moving, because the apartment was a bit too full even before Cas’ things slowly migrated over, but the truth is, no matter how often they bump their heads on low ceilings, or can’t seem to find any more space to cram their latest acquisitions of books that aren’t yet meant for downstairs, this place is home. “And it’s not cramped, Dean, it’s just filled.” Which is a good thing, according to both of them.

It's a pretty damn nice life.

When Cas comes back downstairs, he looks fully awake and is once more dressed in the ill-fitting suit-and-crooked-tie ensemble Dean met him in. He’s even carrying the trench coat.

Dean has very fond memories of getting Cas out of these clothes and into the best pair of Dean’s blue-jeans and an AC/DC shirt – and then out of that ensemble again, because his thighs and arms had a bit of a competition going on over how best to make Dean’s clothing seem too tight, and Dean dizzy with lust. (And also, he was _wearing Dean’s clothes_ , which is reason enough to get him naked. And also, Dean gets to get him naked now, which is also reason enough to get him naked.)

The trench coat is the only part of his old self that has remained a permanent fixture, even when blue jeans and t-shirts exiled the rest of his usual outfit to the back of their shared closet.

“Why the hell are you wearing that?” Dean laughs even as his eyes roam appreciatively over the wonderfully rumpled lines of his shirt.

“Special occasion, Dean, special occasion.”

He’s smiling, all crinkly eyes and gums, and Dean kind of wants to kiss him, so he does. And maybe at some point he’ll get used to the surge of happiness that sort of happens most of the times he touches Cas, and at some point, he’ll probably stop appreciating it so damn much, but he kind of hopes that point never comes. 

“Remind me to get you a real suit at some point.”

“What are you talking about? This is perfectly good attire.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, for a book reading in a coffee shop.”

“Which the aforementioned occasion is. What are _you_ wearing?”

Dean just sort of gestures to what he has on right now with his patented shit-eating grin and Cas’ smile turns a little bit more devilish.

“Good,” is all he says, but it’s in that low voice that makes Dean’s pants feel a little too tight, and already Missouri is clearing her throat and gives them a pointed (and utterly boner-killing) glare.

Dean steps back and runs a hand through his own hair in embarrassment.

Cas steps in with a change of topic. “How is Chuck faring?”

Dean huffs. “You saw him yesterday, he was a mess. Hasn’t even been by yet. He better not chicken out.”

He watches Cas hang up the trench coat and is momentarily distracted by the familiar visual of his shoulders under that terribly oversized suit jacket.

“Hm, yes,” Cas hums, “he was a bit less receptive to calming influences yesterday. And he does hate speaking in front of crowds. But I’m sure he’ll be here.” Ever the believer in the good within even the most cowardly of writers.

“He better. I have absolutely zero intention of dealing with weird ‘Supernatural’ fans on my own. Especially ‘cause they’ll already be on a rampage, what with this being the reason he stopped writing that series and all.”

The thought makes him grimace in distaste. When they started preparations, Charlie insisted on combing the more obscure places on the internet, namely forums and fanfiction archives dedicated to the ‘Supernatural’ series. And yeah, sure, maybe Dean read a couple of them. And yeah, sure, maybe some of them were even written well. Or better than some printed literature. But at least parts of the fandom were nothing short of terrifying.

“Well, I’m looking forward to it anyway,” Cas says, and Dean has the sudden and inexplicable need to pinch his softly smiling cheeks. (He doesn’t. He’s not some weird aunt; he’s Cas’ _boyfriend_ , for Christ’s sake.)

“It’ll be freakin’ embarrassing, that’s what it’ll be,” he grumbles, and it makes Cas tilt his head, squint his eyes and smile. Which, as always, is a damn great look.

“You just don’t like being painted as anything other than a handsome rogue out to rescue maidens and slay monsters, only to ride off into the sunset heroically alone.”

“Not just maidens,” Dean interjects with waggling eyebrows, “Diverse books is what it’s all about.”

Cas just smiles fondly and squeezes his upper arm.

“Well, you’ll just have to deal with being the handsome coffee shop owner who rescued me and a whole bunch of other strays.”

 _And didn’t end up alone after all_ , Dean thinks. _How the hell did that happen._  

Out loud, he says, “I still can’t believe you helped edit this thing. Or that he’s publishing it.”

Cas just rolls his eyes good-naturedly and launches into the same old argument.

“There isn’t a single story within this collection that isn’t a well-researched, very respectful and rather touching portrayal, not to mention we all gave it our thumbs up. It’s your own fault you haven’t taken him up on the opportunity to read the portions pertaining to you before it went into print.”

Dean studiously ignored him. “Also, I still maintain it’s a crappy title.”

“It’s the name of your coffee shop.”

“And I still maintain it’s a crappy name for a coffee shop.”

Without missing a beat, Cas takes out his stupidly modern cell phone (he’s obsessed with emojis). “Ah yes, that reminds me, I meant to text Sam anyway. I’m sure he’ll love hearing how much you’ve always hated his idea.”

“Don’t you dare.”

* * *

In the end, Chuck does show up, sweating profusely in a brown tweed jacket with elbow patches. At least he opted against wearing the bathrobe, though Castiel thinks there’s something to be said for embracing gritty realism versus badly executed cliché.

As expected, he’s absolutely no help whatsoever with setting up and Castiel gives up on attempting to calm his nerves after accidentally putting a few lingering patrons to sleep. So they let him knock over the chairs the rest of them are setting up until Charlie finally takes pity on him and sits him down in a dark corner to at least hyperventilate under her guidance.

The crowd that eventually gathers is a decidedly strange mixture of their usual clientele and a bunch of people favoring flannel and sullen expressions. The latter at least – with a little help from the atmosphere – give way to genuine excitement over meeting their favorite author. Even if he did discontinue the series they love in order to self-publish a collection of short stories about the different lost souls finding a soothing balm to weary hearts and heavy feet in a coffee shop.

Dean is – despite his earlier protests – very much in his element, and Castiel spends a good portion of the evening just watching him make coffee and charming everyone. It’s moments like this when it still feels unreal to think he’ll be the one to take this gorgeous man to bed at the end of the night. But every once in a while, Dean will throw him a wink and a grin brighter than all the rest of the room (and also, they’re living together) so it must be true.

“So, looks like this’ll be a shit-fest, with those weirdoes and Chuck almost peeing himself,” someone next to him says and Castiel is happy to greet Claire.

“It will certainly be an interesting evening.”

For a moment they just stand next to each other, leaning against a less busy portion of the counter. They have a good view of the makeshift ‘stage’ from here, though Chuck’s chair is still empty.

“I was,” Castiel begins hesitantly, not quite looking at Claire, “I was quite touched by your story.”

In tears was more accurate, but he reckons she’d rather hear an understated version. He’d commended Chuck for it more than for any other story, for the subtle portrayal of Claire. How difficult it had been for her to open herself up to anyone after her father’s death, even to Jody and Donna, who took her in after a long period of doing nothing more than nurture that flame of anger inside of her. How Castiel had helped.

Castiel didn’t mean to learn those words by heart, but he’s carried them with him ever since he’s first read them anyway.

_* * *_

_There were days she was made of fire and fury and she felt like she might burn her youth up before she even had the chance to grow out of it._

_She didn’t really mean to snap at the women who took her in, but that’s all she ever did. Snap and rage and try to keep existing when nothing made sense anymore and everything was horrible.  
_

_“I really fucking hate coffee shops,” she said when they took her to this “nice little place they discovered”. They seemed to have a regular table and everything. She rolled her eyes, but took a random book off one of the shelves anyway._

_There was a man sitting alone, eyes closed, a hand resting on the table. She sat down opposite him without even meaning to and he gave her a small smile out of tired eyes.  
_

_“Hey, uhm”, she said to Donna later. “That place was kinda cool.”_

_Maybe the first words she’d told either one of them that weren’t clawed to bits by that beast inside of her._

_She went back, sometimes with her ‘new moms’ (cue undeserved eye-roll, because they’d never called themselves that and she only ever said it to hurt them), sometimes with no one walking beside her but the grief, which liked to step on her heels and weigh down her shoes, and the rage meaning to set something on fire._

_And every time, more dependable than the stupid buses she had to take when Jody couldn’t drive her to school, the man was there, always at the same table, always strangely happy to see her. She ignored him most of the time. Sometimes sneered a bit. Sometimes, when she glanced over the books that kept her breathing, he almost looked like her father._

_And after a bit, that stopped hurting. Silent, sure, with a kind smile and a secret she sometimes wanted to shout as much as she just wanted to shout in general, he became something steady to return to._

_Some days, it felt like having her dad back, to some insignificantly significant extend._

_And most days, it felt like having a friend._

_Not that she’d ever tell him that._

_* * *_

Castiel chances a glance at Claire and finds her nervously chewing a strand of her hair.

“I realize this might make you uncomfortable, but I just wanted to say that you have become very important to me as well.”

She kicks at something non-existent on the floor. “Pff, don’t sweat it, old man.”

But she does smile for a moment, when she thinks he’s not looking.

* * *    

After the murmur has died down and Dean has doused most of the lights, Charlie finally pushes Chuck on stage.

He looks a little green around the gills, even as people politely applaud. At least he doesn’t have a microphone in his hands – Dean laughed at length about the probability of him leaning in too close, static crackling, an awkward ‘Hello’ drowned out by a high-pitched beep.

Thankfully (with a little help from Castiel), the acoustics are more than adequate. Additionally, all of them were smart enough to keep him away from any more espresso shots.

Charlie comes back on stage to press a tall cup half-filled with cooled-down chamomile tea into his hands, which they’d prepared beforehand and which he was less likely to spill all over himself. 

“Uhm, hi everyone”, he finally says and gives a rather cringe-worthy wave he aborts halfway through. “I’m Chuck Shurley, formerly known as Carver Edlund.”

And that’s when the first hand shoots into the air.

“Oh, questions already. I can do questions. I think. Yeah?”

He calls upon the girl in the front row. She’s one of the flannel-wearers and surprisingly resistant to the usual peace of the coffee shop. A shield maybe, like Benny. Or just very determined to be pissed off.

“My name is Becky Rosen and I’m the head of the official ‘Supernatural’ fan club and I just wanted to ask why you quit your publisher and abandoned your story.”

It’s not actually a question, but at least it’s one Chuck was moderately prepared for. He takes a big gulp of the chamomile.

“Uhm, I wanted to take the ‘Supernatural’ series in a different direction than my publishing house. And deadlines give me anxiety, so…”

“What do you mean, different direction? I’m sure I’m speaking for everyone here when I say that it was just getting good, with the angel storyline and the two sisters stopping the apocalypse and all.”

Chuck’s eyes narrow and he corrects, “The two sisters and the fallen angel.”

Becky actually seems to roll her eyes and very audibly tells the girl next to her, “Ugh, who even cares about her.” The other girl sinks lower in her chair and pointedly looks in the other direction.

Chuck also doesn’t seem very amused, even though his tone is still light and a bit unsure.

“Uhm, I do. That’s sort of the reason I quit. I wanted to give her a bigger role, and, I mean, there was something developing between her and Cora, which I didn’t even mean to write. My editor kept making me change things to sound less romantic, but you try forcing characters to keep from falling in love when that’s all they want to do.”

“But Cora is super straight!”

Castiel can literally feel Dean behind him bristle, his righteous anger filling the room within seconds. He’s pretty sure Claire is helping with that as well, since she huffs out an annoyed breath. At least it seems to affect Chuck in an actually helpful way, because he stops nervously pulling on his earlobe and stands up taller. Even his voice is steadier.

“Uhm, bisexual people do exist. There’s me, for example. And at least three other people in here.”

And before Becky can interrupt again, he goes on.

“Anyway, that’s why I stopped writing. Creative differences and all. And even ‘Supernatural’ has to end at some point. Sure, I could have dragged it on for twenty more books or so, constantly repeating the same story lines, introducing new characters only to have to kill them off again because either my fanbase – no offense to you guys – or my publishers don’t like them, making the sisters fight over the same old stuff every few installments, pulling reasons to keep Cora and Raniel apart out of my ass. But really, I think it’s better this way. ‘Swan Song’ is a nice open ending and the characters can just do whatever the hell they want now. Like hook up. Or hunt together, now that Tabatha is back from the dead, too.”

This time, Becky gets stopped from talking by the girl next to her, who turns to glare at her, and Chuck takes another, steadier sip of his tea. Then, he sits down and opens the book on the side table. It’s fresh out of the press – the boxes arrived about a week ago – but it’s full of little post-its serving as bookmarks and looks a little rumpled already.

“So, thank you, Becky, and all of you, for your enthusiasm. I had a lot of fun with ‘Supernatural’, frustrating though it was. But that’s not why we’re here today. I’m supposed to be reading from my new book. Which, you know, is kind of important to me. And a couple of other people in this room."

A solid presence settles against the counter on Castiel’s other side and he doesn’t have to look to know it is Dean. Their arms press lightly together, fingers brushing.

“Here goes nothing,” Dean whispers in his ear and Castiel can tell he’s nervous, so he takes his hand. Their palms fit together perfectly.

What a blessed life, he thinks.

Chuck clears his throat and – with an astoundingly good voice – begins to read from the beginning.

Here goes absolutely everything.

* * *

_Lawrence, Kansas doesn’t seem like the kind of place where you’d find good coffee._

_I mean sure, it somehow managed the transition from a site of some pretty gruesome massacres to being home to a whole bunch of students determined to change the world (or at least the American Mid-West). But just because there are sleep-deprived people, it really doesn’t mean the coffee’s going to be any good._

_If you’re a writer – and hey, self-insert here – you’re probably even more dependent on a good cup of joe than all those other poor souls facing a deadline. It’s sort of all your blood has consisted of since you first made the insane decision to try to make money with words._

_(A word to the wise: Don’t. Just, don’t.)_

_Anyway, if you’re one of those poor bastards who can’t be deterred by reason, Lawrence, Kansas should probably not be your first choice of residence. People say a writer can work from anywhere, but people are idiots._

_Actually, if you do end up living in Lawrence, it’s probably only because your mother kicked you out, your car broke down and your publishing house doesn’t pay you enough to relocate anywhere exciting. (Get used to that, by the way. Writing does NOT pay.)_

_But let’s say all of that happened and you’re stuck here, with a case of bad writer’s block and a broken coffee maker. And you’re not the dramatic type, but you_ are _probably going to die if you don’t get any caffeine within your blood stream within the next hour or so._

_That, my friend, that right there is the moment when stubbing your toe right outside a coffee shop is the (very likely the only) sign you’ll ever get that whatever God or other entity may or may not be out there, apparently wants you to keep living._

_The point is: Lawrence, Kansas really isn’t the best place for good coffee, but **Noveltea & Coffee** is. _

_It’s more than that, actually. If I do my job correctly – and I hope I do, because I just quit my publisher and I’m rapidly approaching broke – you’ll see that it’s the sort of place lost souls flock to without knowing why and end up feeling a bit less lost for it._

_And I’m not just talking about myself. That’s sort of the whole point of this collection._

_What I managed to write here, with the help of a little bit of magic, a few shelves of great literature around and that ever-steaming cup of The Ultimate Coffee in front of me, is about the people who come here every day._

_People who are completely different, with lives that never would have interloped if it hadn’t been for a little coffee shop owned and made extraordinary by two good, kind men._

_It’s good stuff, even if my writing isn’t._

_And hey, I gave it my best shot. Which is sort of all anybody can do, really._

_Now, there are a lot of myths surrounding writing that are actually bullshit. (Whoever came up with ‘Write drunk, edit sober’ clearly never cradled a massive headache looking at three pages worth of having typed one key to the right on a laptop.) But one thing that’s actually true is that all good stories need a good beginning._

_And all of these begin with a lovingly hand-crafted sign proclaiming ‘Come On In’._

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:  
> \- Some opinions on 'Supernatural'  
> \- Becky Rosen  
> \- Brief moment of bi-erasure  
> \- Depiction of anxiety (Chuck) as viewed from an outside POV  
> \- Breaks in style  
> \- Depiction of grief (Claire)  
> \- Unrealistic amounts of butterflies two years into a relationship  
> \- Completely and utterly happy ending
> 
> And this is it. My first DCBB. The longest fanfic I have ever finished, and certainly the one I've worked the hardest on. I've spent at least as many hours re-writing and editing as I have with the first draft, and to say I poured only a little bit of my own heart and soul into this would be an understatement. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it, despite whatever flaws may remain (I still see a few and may fix them at a later point). 
> 
> I also have plans for three, possibly four separate time stamps. We'll see how that goes. 
> 
> THANK YOU FOR READING! It has been a joy preparing this for you.


End file.
